Melaia; and other Poems : electronic version.

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 116 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Melaia; and other poems. Cook, Eliza, 1818-1889. by Eliza Cook. R. J. Wood London 1838

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November 26, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Frontispiece]

THE OLD WATER MILL

Printed in Oil Colours by G. Baxter, 3 Charter house Square, From a Painting by W. Burgess.

[Title Page]

MELAIA;ANDOTHER POEMS. BY ELIZA COOK. LONDON. R. J. WOOD, DISPATCH OFFICE, 139, FLEET STREET. 1838. CONTENTS. PREFACE vii Melaia 1 Oh! Dear to Memory are those Hours 35 Sailing Song 37 The Sea-Child 38 The Miser 39 The Mother who hath a Child at Sea 41 The Free 43 Sleep 44 Hallowed be Thy Name 45 Winter 47 The English Ship by Moonlight 48 Water 50 Snow 51 Beckon where the Wimpling Waters 53 Old Dobbin 54 The Dewdrop 58 Stanzas—The Tomb 59 The Quiet Eye 60 The Smuggler Boy 62 Stanzas 63 The Gallant English Tar 65 Recipe for a Serenade 67 The Gipsy's Tent 68 Our Native Song 69 Buttercups and Daisies 71 The Idiot-born 73 The Willow Tree 74 The Gipsy Child 76 Norah M'Shane 77 While the Christmas Log is Burning 78 The Poet 79 The Sexton 81 Love 84 The Clouds 86 The Englishman 87 Fire 89 Here was My Home 90 The Acorn 91 Song of Old Time 92 The Christmas Holly 93 The Thames 95 Stanzas 97 I Laughed at the Storm 98 Nae Star was Glintin out Aboon 99 Cupid's Arrow 100 A B C 102 Lines to the Queen of England 103 A Love Song 105 The Young Mariners 106 This is the Hour for Me 110 Night 112 Oh! never Breathe a Dead One's Name 114 A Song for Merry Harvest 115 The Ploughshare of Old England 116 Thy Will be Done 117 The Old Arm-Chair 119 Gratitude 120 The English Holiday 122 The Fairy of the Sea 124 Stanzas 126 The Sailor's Grave 127 I Miss Thee, My Mother 128 The Heart that's True 131 The Loved One was not there 132 The World 133 There's a Star in the West 135 Stanzas 137 Hang up his Harp, he'll Wake no more 139 The Bonnie Scot 140 Childhood 141 Song of the Carrion Crow 143 England 147 Thy Kingdom Come 150 The Bow 151 The Forest Trees 153 The Horse 155 The King of the Wind 157 My Grave 158 Song of the Sun 160 The Mourners 162 Song of the Rushlight 168 The Smuggler King 168 God hath a Voice 169 The Old Water-Mill 170 The Welcome Back 172 The Wreaths 173 Old Pincher 175 Kings 180 The Dead 183 Song of the Goblet 185 The Last Look 188 Stanzas 189 Song of the Mariners 191 The Flag of the Free 193 The Brave 194 Stanzas to the Young 196 Prayer 198 The King's Old Hall 201 PREFACE.

LIBERAL critics and a generous public have already bestowed their distinguished marks of approbation on the Miscellaneous Poems in this volume. My literary career has been of short duration, and was entered on without a friend to propitiate my interest, or laud my efforts. The highly flattering reception I have met with is, therefore, doubly gratifying, for those laurels are ever the most precious which are gained without fortune or favour.

Many individuals whose fame and genius render their position an enviable honour, have freely awarded their admiration, and the general testimony of a favourable opinion has inspired me with confidence. To deny that I am proud of such praise and encouragement, would be equally false and unnatural, and I gladly seize this opportunity to offer my warmest acknowledgments to those who have so kindly and impartially patronised my labours.

Respecting the longer poem, I beg to state that it is not put forth as a great production to astonish and delight. I merely estimate it as a simple lyrical tale, a first attempt at lengthy construction; though doubtless exhibiting many defects. If, however, it be received as a promise of better things, I shall be amply satisfied.

To say more is unnecessary. If a volume possess merit it will plead its own cause; if not, the prosy detail of an egotistical preface only inflicts additional tedium on the reader.

MELAIA:AND OTHER POEMS. MELAIA. 'TWAS in the age when Arts and Peace Reviv'd once more in mighty Greece— When Fame forsook the camp and blade, And turn'd from purple fields to wreathe Her meeds again for those who bade The canvas glow, the marble breathe: 'Twas in this age Melonian stood The highest in his sculpture art; Known as the great, lov'd as the good; With hand but rivall'd by his heart. His was the power to wake the gaze, Yielding the spirit's speechless praise— His was the spell that flings control Over the eye, breast, brain, and soul. Chaining our senses to the stone, Till we become As fix'd and dumb As the cold form we look upon. Melonian was about to leave His idol toil, one summer eve, When at his door a stranger guest Appeared in venerable guise, Whose weight of years had dimm'd his eyes, And meekly lower'd his "haught crest;" His garb was of a shape and sort That plainly augur'd little wealth; But his frank smile gave good report Of rich content and placid health; No stern and frowning gloom was seen To curl his lip, or shade his mien. His bending limbs and silver'd head, Stricken with patriarchal age, Gave ample sign that he had read Life's volume to its closing page. Melonian rose; the stranger bow'd:— "Artist," cried he, "I've come to scan Thy blazon'd works,—is it allow'd? Though great, perhaps thou'rt not too proud, To please an old and curious man. The restless wings of Rumour waft Fair tidings of thy works and craft; Crowds speak of thee with lauding joy; I like thy name, and would employ Thy hand. Say, Artist, what may be The sum that forms thy common fee?" The Sculptor smil'd. "Friend!" he exclaim'd, "My charge may startle, when 'tis named. Excuse me, stranger, if I say I deem 'tis more than thou canst pay. Two thousand bizantines I ask, For simplest form or briefest task." "Two thousand! 'tis indeed fair store Of gold, but he deserv'd much more. Have what thou wilt, 'tis ne'er too much; Double the sum, it shall be thine; But will thy chisel deign to touch A form nor human nor divine? I see thou hast a goodly band Of gods and heroes scatter'd round; But I invoke thy master hand, To carve me but a simple hound." "A hound! a dog!" Melonian cried: How's this, old man, would'st thou deride My noble art? I blush with shame; Say, dost thou mock my skill and fame; I, first in Greece, think'st thou 'twould suit Such hand to carve a cur, a brute?" "Hold!" said the guest, "I must not hear Such light words thrown to one so dear. Long as I've trod the world I've found Nought half so worthy as my hound; And thou, Melonian, would'st not spurn His claims and merit, did'st thou learn The strange and strong, nay, holy tie That link'd so firm and tenderly: Of all the boons that men possess, To aid, to cheer, instruct, and bless, The dog, bold, fond, and beauteous beast Is far from either last or least. His love lives on through change of lot, His faith will chain him on our grave, To howl and starve; but thou may'st not Have proved their love and faith: I have. "Thy guerdon's sure: look on this ring, A precious, though a bauble thing; The meanest jewel would suffice To render safe thy utmost price. But do my bidding, and the stone Of richest lustre is thine own. Behold and judge." The Sculptor gazed Upon the slender hand upraised, And saw a finger thin and white, Encircled with a hoop of gold; Embedding diamonds of light, Nor loosely worn nor cheaply sold. "Speak," cried the Stranger, "dost thou choose To carve my dog? decide and tell. Enough; I see thou dost refuse The favour craved. Artist, farewell." Melonian seiz'd his hand: "Nay, nay, Thy parting is not thus with me; Thy speech, thy bearing, all betray Thou art not what thou seem'st to be; There's more than meets the eye and ear In thee. Say who, and what thou art! I'm honest, and thou need'st not fear A gossip tongue nor traitor heart. May I beseech thee to relate Thy secret pilgrimage and fate: You start—aye, 'tis a bold request; But you have stirr'd within my breast That quick and sudden interest, Which is not easily suppress'd. The warmth you've kindled doth defy The rules of gentle courtesy; And prompts, perchance, to ruder word And freer tone than should be heard. Your pardon, if I give offence; But, trust me, mine's no wily soul— This fervour, bursting all control, Is not the seeming of pretence." The Stranger spoke not for awhile, But strove to check a rising sigh, And fix'd his calm and searching eye Upon the Sculptor's brow. The smile Which erst illumed his mouth had fled, And with it every trace of red From cheek and lips; a change had spread O'er his fair mien, as though some deep Keen pangs had woke from memory's sleep. Where is the one who hath not had Some anguish trial, long gone by, Steal, spectre-like, all dark and sad On busy thought, till the full eye And aching breast betrayed too well, The past still held undying spell? Some pensive vision of this kind, Seem'd shadowing the Stranger's mind: "My fate," said he, "hath been to see And bear mortality's extremes. My days have run 'twixt cloud and sun, But oh! with more of dark than beams. What I was once, has been conceal'd Right cautiously from other ears, My tongue has never yet reveal'd The state that mark'd my earlier years; But thou shalt hear it. I will trust The earnest radiance in thy face, 'Tis spirit-lit, and I can trace The breathing of a soul all just. Listen, Melonian; but I claim Thy sacred vow, that words or name Pass not thy lips, till death has laid This breaking form in peace and shade. "Say, Sculptor, dost thou yield thine oath?" "Ay!" cried Melonian; "but the troth Of simple promise is, with me, As strong a bond as there can be. My oath! Ay, take it if thou wilt; Yet is that bosom base and cold, And little worth, that does not hold A broken word as meanest guilt. But stay, my friend, here's rich rare wine, Of years, I ween, outnumbering thine; I know it's vintage to be good; Pour, fill, and drink—'twill warm thy blood; Come, pledge me deep, thy cheek is pale, First brace thy heart, then tell thy tale." The cup was drain'd, and Friendship's power Had grown so great in some short hour, 'Twere difficult for host or guest To say which liked the other best. "Now," cried the Stranger, "hear me tell My simple tale; and mark me well, Though my plain style may sound uncouth, It yields nought else than bitter truth. "My long and chequer'd course began Far hence, in sultry Hindostan. Perchance I was a monarch's heir, My toys, the sceptre and the crown, Shown like an idol to the stare Of a vast nation, taught to wear A princely port, and proudly share A power I should one day bear, All kingly, all my own. "I know full well ye cannot see, A trace of what there once might be; My sand is almost out, and now Ye find but furrows on my brow. I know no records linger there, Save those endors'd by age and care; Heaven gives no stamp, Misfortune's tide Brings prince and peasant side by side; And who can tell the monarch, when He ranks and herds with other men? "Ye smile, as though it were a thing Absurd, a jest to rouse your mirth, To say my sire might be a king, And hold dominion o'er the earth. Yet such he was, and such was I; Nay, start not, 'tis but empty sound, Strip off the robes of purple dye, Throw all the peacock trappings by, And nothing more than man is found; And often less, some scorpion worm, That crawls and stings in human form; Some upright brute, whose ruthless might, In covert of a regal den, Lays waste all mercy, sense, and right, Defies a God, and tramples men. But who expects the sapling tree To flourish, nurs'd in royalty, Amid the worst the world can lend, To choke and tangle, warp and rend, 'Mid all to blast the goodly shoot, And turn fair bloom to bitter fruit. The monarch's glance hath little chance To scan a page in Nature's book; The lessons there are seal'd with care, He must not, dare not, cannot look: Lull'd by the songs that courtiers sing, No harsher music suffer'd near, If Truth should whisper she would ring A strange alarum in his ear. Could ye but see what I have seen, And know as much as I have known, Ye would not wonder there have been Such graceless tyrants on a throne. "I had an empire at my nod, And ruled it like a demigod: I was caress'd as one divine, Wealth, might, scarce limited, were mine. My word could free the veriest slave, Or doom the guiltless to a grave; I was a fear'd and homaged one; Perch'd on Ambition's utmost height, And thought, as other fools have done, Ne'er to be lower or less bright. But I was taught a mighty change, In spirit, feeling, place, and word; I've brook'd the trials, wild and strange, Which some might question if they heard. "I've prov'd how hard it is to cope With traitors' blows and blasted hope; I've drunk the cup of dark despair, E'en to the dregs; I've brunted all, Of searing pain and withering care, That Heaven can send to goad and gall; Yet have I stood the trying test, And found at last my hour of rest. "Old age is garrulous, they say, And this choice wine has wrought so well, That my tongue gains a swifter play, And my lax heartstrings warmly swell. But come, I'll speed my tale, and pray None else may have such tale to tell. "'Twas on the night-fall of a day, When slaughter's red and fierce career Had lasted from the breaking ray, Leaving, as twilight died away, Some thousands on one common bier. "The night came on, the work was done, The glory ours, the battle won; My hand was tired of the sword, And gladly to its sheath restor'd The dripping blade; for though my life Hath oft been risk'd in human strife, Elate and proud to have my name Grow dreaded for its soldier fame; Though I have stumbled o'er the slain, 'Mid splinter'd bone and scatter'd brain; Though I have seen the steaming blood Drench the green sod and tinge the flood; Still, when the raging hour had sped, I sigh'd to think such things had been; And though I help'd to strew the dead, I sicken'd at the carnage scene. "My soul was reckless in the crash, Of ringing shield, and striking clash: Then I had all the tiger's will, And all the lion's strength to kill; But when I trod the dead-strewn plain, With Mercy at her post again, I felt a shuddering horror lurk, To think I'd mingled in such work. "'Twas on the night of such a day, Exhausted and o'erspent, I flung my heavy mail away, And hied me to my tent. There close beside my couch I found A young and almost lifeless hound; Some random sword or falling spear, Had deeply gash'd his neck and ear: He panted fast, he freely bled, His eyeballs had a glazy beam; He moan'd with anguish as his head Fell weltering in his own life-stream. I ask'd who own'd him—all were mute, Not one stood forth to make a claim; Who brought him there? none knew the brute, Nor how, nor whence, nor when he came. Poor wretch! I could not let him lie Unheeded, there to bleed and die: The girdle from my waist I tore, To bind the wound and staunch the gore. "'Twas done, I mark'd enough to see He was a dog of noble breed, A whelp that promis'd fair to be The first in beauty, strength, and speed. I liked the beast, and turn'd to give Command that I would have him live; It was enough, he found repose, Secure from further wounds and foes. "Full soon he won my right good-will, I liked him well, As ye may tell, By how he claims my homage still. His fleetness held the longest chace, He never knew the second place; The prey once seiz'd, he'd ne'er resign His hold, for any voice but mine; The bribe was vain, the threat defied, I was his lord, and none beside. "He did not serve me for my throne, Yet was he grateful, fond, and brave; He loved me for myself alone, He was that good and gracious thing, That rare appendage to a king, A friend, that never play'd the slave. "There was one other tie to hold My heart; I never loved but two; That other—must the name be told! Yes, yes,—it was my queenly bride, My worshipp'd star, my joy, my pride; But she was false, my dog was true! "I saw her in a lowly grade, Too bright a blossom for the shade; I woo'd, but with an honest love, I spread no snares to catch the dove; The bar of rank was trampled down, I stoop'd and raised her to my crown. "Oh, how I doted on her smile, That sunbeam o'er a gulf of guile; How I adored her orbs of blue, Clear, full, and lustrous in their hue; Rich as the deep cerulean light Of autumn's melting moonlit night. "I've met their tender glance, half hid Beneath the thick-fringed falling lid; I've seen the pearly drops of grief Swim like the dew on violet's leaf; I've watch'd their pleasure-kindled ray, Flash out like summer lightning's play; And thought, had old Prometheus caught The gleaming spark from eyes like those, He would have found the fire he sought On earth—nor made the gods his foes. "Her golden hair, with glossy sheen, Fell round her temples rich and free, With all the graceful beauty seen In flowers of the laburnum tree. Her soft cheeks made the maple fade, Such tint, such bloom, was theirs alone; The sculptor's art could ne'er impart Her stately bearing to the stone. "Oh, why does Heaven bequeath such gifts, To fascinate all eyes that mark, With magnet charm, till something lifts The mask, and shows how foully dark The dazzling reptile is within, Beneath its painted harlot skin. If it were so, the outward part Bore witness of the mind and heart, How many a one must shun the light, Or show a leper to the sight. "I know I carried much of taint, That gave offence to Heaven and man; But if ye seek a sage or saint, Search courts, and find him if ye can. "I was corrupt, and did much wrong, But never breath'd of harm to her; Mine was that passion warm and strong, Which keeps its radiance pure and long, However else the soul may err. "I loved her with a zeal intense, That thrall'd each colder, wiser sense; I drank the nectar from her lip, As bees the honied poison sip; I trusted her, my tongue reveal'd All—much that should have been conceal'd: She labour'd, not in vain, to wrest Some potent secrets from my breast; And, then she leagued with traitor band; A toil was spread, foul work was plann'd: A rueful deed was to be done, And I the victim,—she the one— Oh, mercy! have I speech and breath! She, she to weave the mesh of death! "What's this upon my cheek? a tear! Weak drop, what business hast thou here? I fondly hoped the shatter'd string Had been by now a tuneless thing; But touch it lightly as I will, It gives a mournful echo still. Oh! when the heart has once been riven, The wound will firmly close no more; Let Memory's searching probe be driven, It bleeds and quivers, freshly sore. "This must not be, more wine I say, Your nectar juice shall sweep away The phantom pang: fill up, I'll drain This bowl, and to my tale again. "She leagued with traitors! 'twas no dream! I'd proof of all the hellish scheme; I'd noticed much of late to make The drowsiest suspicion wake. Strange glances interchanged by those I guess'd were less of friends than foes; And more than once I'd plainly heard A whisper'd treasonable word. But these I brook'd, and thought to quell All petty brawls that might betide; Till I beheld the Hecate spell Was conjured by my trusted bride. "Chance gave a paper to my sight, Meant for another eye to meet; It stated that the coming night Would render treachery complete. It told what fiends would scarce proclaim, Of treason, murder!—and the same, Bore impress of her seal and name. "Mute with dismay, I still read on; And oh! the direst that could be, I found her very honour gone, She loved another, and not me. "I stood with fire in every vein, My pulses beat with frenzied stroke; I breath'd with that short heaving strain, Which teaches what it is to choke. A moment, and there came a chill, A stagnant, icy chill, as though The blood recoil'd, afraid to fill A heart made weak with such a blow. "The jarring chaos could not last, Such struggling state is quickly past; Such conflict is too close and strong For mortal strength to bear with long. When we have learnt the very worst, The spirit soon must yield, or burst. "I was betray'd, ay, ev'n to life, Sedition round, and death in view; And they who see the assassin's knife, Must aptly think and promptly do. "My love was wreck'd, my faith deceived, The strokes that ever madden most; Without these, all had been retrieved; With them, I cared not what was lost. "My kingship flitted o'er my brain, My pompous sway, my courtier train: I laugh'd, and rent the ermine vest That only mock'd my abject state; I dash'd the jewels from my breast, And sought my palace gate. "I trod all soft and stealthily; The path was clear, I meant to fly: Ne'er call me coward, till ye bear The test by which I then was tried; Remember, had I tarried there, The stroke was sure, I'd meanly died. "I knew some minions round me then, Were more of demons than of men. Their aim was sure, if life the mark: Once set on blood, they'd keep the track, And would not scruple in the dark, To sheathe their dagger in my back. "With fearful haste, I saddled straight An Arab courser, newly broke, Whose strength and grace were fit to mate With those that form Apollo's yoke. "'Twas no meet moment to restrain His mettled zeal: away he sped, With tossing mane, And flinging rein, Upon the way he chose to tread, The die was cast—flight, instant flight, Alone could lend me hope to live. The monarch born, the gem bedight, The flatter'd god, the ever right, Was now a friendless fugitive. "Away! away! the clattering hoof Re-echoed from the palace roof. I fled, unrivalled by the wind, Nor threw a single glance behind; Crown, sceptre, throne—such dreams were o'er, Melaia was a king no more. "I fled, but soon the deep-toned bay Of blood-hound follow'd on my way; And even now, there's a rebound Of joyous throb, a glow that steals Swift through my frame, to tell I found My gallant dog upon my heels. "How welcome are the words that tell The culprit, doom'd to death and pain, That he may quit his chains and cell, And rove the world all free again. How precious is the ray of light That breaks upon the blind one's eye, Unfolding to his wondering sight, The glorious scenes of earth and sky. But never to despairing ear, Or hopeless orb, was aught so dear, As he to me appear'd to be In that dark hour of flight and fear. "I check'd my steed, and lost some time, To let that dumb retainer climb, With whimpering joy, and fondly greet The hand he ever sprung to meet. I stoop'd above his glossy head, And many a streaming tear I shed, Ay, like a child: but recollect, In perils we must not reject The meanest aid. The straw or plank Will lure us then to snatch and thank. "I linger'd, but, ere long, my ear Had warning of pursuers near: My rowels touch'd my Arab's side, Away he leapt like rushing tide, That rolls to fling its sweeping waste, With furious all-defying haste. "On, on, we went, I took no heed, How such a strange career would end: I urged my bard to meteor speed, But cared not where that speed might tend. He sprung, he flew, as though he knew A frenzied wretch was on his back; And kept his pace for goodly space, Upon his own free chosen track. He bore me on for many an hour, With headlong sweep, and bounding power. At last he faltered on his path, I goaded, but the goad was vain; Where was I? with the sun's full wrath Around me on the desert plain. "What an unthought-of goal I'd won, Mercy! what wildering race I'd run. 'Twould soon be o'er, my failing horse Was strangely wheeling on his course: His strength was out, his spirit flagged; His fire was spent, he faintly lagged; His dripping flanks and reeking neck, Were white with rifts of foaming fleck. His laboured breath was quick and short, His nostrils heaved with gasping snort; He tottered on, his will was good, His work had not belied his blood. "Another mile, and then he fell; His part was o'er, he'd play'd it well. With snapping girth, and reeling head, He groan'd, and sunk,—my steed was dead. "Above me one vast concave spread, No dappled clouds, no mellow blue; Hot, darting rays, like torches shed A light of most unearthly hue. Below was one smooth glittering sheet, That crisp'd and crack'd beneath my feet; No springing herb, no daisied sod, All barren, joyless, and untrod. "My dog was fawning at my side, Untired with my rapid ride; But I rebuked the sportive bound, That scatter'd choking dust around. "My breath was faint, my skin was dry, The little moisture in my eye Serv'd but to scald; the striking beams Fell on my form like sulphur streams. What hideous change! I, who had known The sickening splendour of a throne: I, humbled wretch, was craving now A moment's shadow for my brow. "Thus to be left on such a spot, Appear'd the climax of my lot. Death hover'd there in such gaunt shape, That Hope scarce whisper'd of escape; But I was not in fitting state To weigh the chances of my fate. "I wended on with hasty stride, 'Twixt torrid earth and brazen sky, Reckless of all that might betide, To meet the worst, to live or die. "But some conjecture, quick and wild, Flash'd sudden o'er me, and beguiled To flattering Hope; I vaguely guess'd That nigh the desert, in the west, A city stood: that thought inspired, And held me on a while untired. "I doubted if my wasting strength Could last the unknown burning length. It might; yet, oh! 'twas fearful risk, To toil between the blazing disk Of eastern sun and shining sand, With lips unmoisten'd, cheek unfann'd. 'Twas frightful ordeal, but yet Dire evils pass if boldly met. "I will not tire thy patient ear, With tedious detail of my woe; But bring my rambling speech to bear On that I wish thee most to know. "Hour after hour brought on the night, With something less of heat and light; You may believe I was outworn, And trembling, famish'd, and forlorn; I flung me on the dewless ground, And fast and bitter tears I wept, Till pillow'd on my faithful hound, Like a tired child, I sobb'd, and slept. "Slumber like mine wrought little good, I started as the sun uprose, And fancied that my boiling blood Had gather'd torture from repose. I felt my temples glow and beat, With faster pulse and fiercer heat; I would have wept again, but now My very tears refused to flow. "I woke—I lived, to meet, to bear With famine, thirst, and blank despair: I cast my eager straining eye, From sky to sand, from sand to sky; No, no relief! my hound and I Were all that broke the vacancy. "The whirling blast, the breaker's dash, The snapping ropes, the parting crash, The sweeping waves that boil and lash, The stunning peal, the hissing flash, The hasty prayer, the hopeless groan, The stripling seaboy's gurgling tone, Shrieking amid the flood and foam, The names of mother, love, and home. The jarring clash that wakes the land, When blade to blade, and hand to hand, Unnumber'd voices burst and swell, In one unceasing war-whoop yell; The trump of discord ringing out, The clamour strife, the victor shout. Oh! these are noises any ear Will dread to meet and quail to hear: But let the earth or waters pour The loudest din or wildest roar; Let Anarchy's broad thunders roll, And Tumult do its worst to thrill, There is a silence to the soul More awful, and more startling still. "To hear our very breath intrude Upon the boundless solitude, Where mortal tidings never come, With busy feet or human hum. All hush'd above, beneath, around, No stirring form, no whisper'd sound; This is a loneliness that falls Upon the spirit, and appals More than the mingled rude alarms, Arising from a world in arms. "This is a silence bids us shrink, As from a precipice's brink; But ye will rarely meet it, save In the hot desert, or cold grave. Cut off from life and fellow men, This silence was around me then. 'Twas horrible, but once again, I dragg'd along the scorching plain, Till the consuming orb of day, Shot down the close meridian ray. "Exhausted nature now had done Its utmost 'neath a desert sun, And moments of delirium came, A staggering weakness seized my frame; My feet refused their task, when lo! My gaze met, Many a minaret, A city rose, 'twas nigh, but oh! The beacon star now shone in vain, Though short the space, I ne'er could gain That other league—my limbs, my heart, All fail'd, I felt my sinews start With the last shudder of despair, And Hope expired—my grave was there. "'Twas thirst, 'twas madd'ning thirst alone, That wrung my spirit's inmost groan. Hunger is bitter, but the worst Of human pangs, the most accurs'd Of Want's fell scorpions, is thirst. "I look'd upon this precious ring, That few beside a king could buy; What was its value, would it bring A cup of water? No! its gleam, That flash'd back to the brazen beam, But taunted with its brilliancy. "My strange distemper'd fancy wrought The doom of Tantalus, for nought Broke on my frantic waking dream, But the deep well and limpid stream: Distorted vision conjured near, All that is cool, fresh, moist, and clear. I saw the crystal fountain play, In leaping sheets of snowy spray; I heard the undulating wave Of the swift river gush and lave; I saw the dew on grass and flower, I heard the gentle summer shower, With its soft pattering bubbles drip; I heard the dashing water-fall, Oh! it was cruel mockery all: I laugh'd, and then my shrunken lip Oozed thicken'd gore; with upraised hand, I sunk upon the shining sand, A Maker's mercy to implore: I fervently invoked a name, Which I confess, with much of shame, I'd rarely call'd upon before. "Mid pleasure, plenty, and success, Freely we take from Him who lends; We boast the blessings we possess, Yet scarcely thank the One who sends. But let Affliction pour its smart, How soon we quail beneath the rod, With shatter'd pride, and prostrate heart, We seek the long-forgotten God. Let Him but smite us, soon we bleed, And tremble like a fragile reed; Then do we learn, and own, and feel The power that wounds alone can heal. 'Twas thus with me; the desert taught Lessons with bitter truth replete, They chasten'd sorely, but they brought My spirit to its Maker's feet. "My glance was for a moment thrown Toward the Heaven I address'd; But the fierce rays came rushing down Upon my brow, With furnace glow, Dense, lurid, red, Till my smote head Fell faint and stricken on my breast. "Thus while I knelt my hound look'd up, Fate was about to give the last, The o'erflowing drop to Misery's cup, He started, fled, and bounded fast. "Oh! what a moment, all the past Was blended in that little space. He fled me at his utmost pace, Like arrow from the string he flew Right on—he lessen'd to my view. 'Twas o'er, he vanish'd from my sight, I breath'd his name, and groan'd outright. I was alone, My dog had gone, He that I deem'd the firmly true, In the last hour he left me too. "I saw no more; I snatch'd my breath Like those who meet a drowning death; One cry of hopeless agony Escaped my lips, while earth and sky Grew dark, and reel'd before mine eye. A whirling pang shot through my brain, Of mingled madness, fire and pain; 'Twas rending, but it was the last. Thank God, it came like lightning flame, And desolated as it past. "No more of this, I only know, I felt strange pressure on my brow; The world was not, I can but tell, That senseless, lone, and blind, I fell. "The next that Memory can mark, Is of a clear and shrill-toned bark. Sense tardily came back, I woke, Beneath a gentle pawing stroke. I gazed with wild and doubting stare, My dog! my noble dog was there,— It was my Murkim that I saw, With blood, wet blood, upon his jaw. What sight for eyes like mine to meet, I shriek'd I started to my feet. Judge of my joy, beside him lay A small and lifeless beast of prey. I seized it; I was in no mood To play the epicure in food; I waited not to think on what That prey might be, or whence 'twas got. Had you but seen me clutch and fall, Like famish'd wolf or cannibal, Upon that mangled, raw repast, My hands, my teeth, all tearing fast: Had you beheld my dry lips drain, The current from each reeking vein; No nectar half so sweet or fresh, Oh, it was rare delicious fare; I never quaff'd such luscious draught, Nor tasted viand like that flesh. It sooth'd my brain, it cool'd my eye, It quench'd the fire upon my brow; It gave me breath, strength, energy; And looking to the city nigh, I felt that I could reach it now. Could I do less than kneel and bless, My saviour in the wilderness? But what will all of speech avail, The choicest eloquence would fail; The feeling that absorb'd my heart, Was of that deep entrancing kind Which doth defy the lips to find, A fitting language to impart, Its glowing zeal and passionate start. My lips would falter to discuss The sense he kindled in my breast: My dog had snatch'd from death, and thus I leave thee to suppose the rest. "Again I took my onward way, Once more I track'd the desert ground Again I knelt to thank, to pray, Nor deem me impious, if I say That next to God I held my hound. "I reach'd the city; many a year Has roll'd away, Since that long day, But yet, behold this truant tear Proclaims that trying day is set Among the few we ne'er forget. "Methinks I'm getting sad—and see, The sun's behind yon orange tree: 'Tis well my tale holds little more; It wearies, and I wish it o'er. Some time, perchance, when thou'rt inclined I'll yield thee more of what befel The throne and bride I left behind: But now I do not care to dwell On what, to me, Will ever be, A most ungrateful theme to tell. "I walk'd the world unmark'd, unknown, Remote from man, but not alone; I kept one friend, the closely bound, The dear, the changeless, in my hound. He had become my spirit's part, And rarely did he leave my side, He shared my board, my couch, my heart, Till press'd by Time, he droop'd and died Of sheer old age. Why, Murkim, why, Did not Melaia too then die! I miss thee still, I mourn thee yet; But lo! again my cheek is wet. Fool that I am—this will not do— Artist, this suits nor me nor you: My words have just worn down the sun. One question, friend, and I have done. "I've told thee how he bore and braved The darkest chequer in my lot; You know his worth, he serv'd and saved, Now, wilt thou carve my dog, or not?" Pillars had moulder'd, ages waned, Since this plain tale beguiled an hour; And Time and War had both profaned The glory-seat of arts and power, Famed Greece, the beautiful and great, Was but a wreck'd and fallen state; She was but as a funeral urn, Holding the ashes worlds revere, O'er which the coldest heart will mourn, And strangers hang to shed the tear: Each monument was laid in dust, By some ungodly savage hand, Her palace gates had gather'd rust, Her picture scrolls had fed the brand: When 'mid the relics scatter'd round, One of surpassing skill was found; The work was rare, The marble fair, The form, a bold and couchant hound. The old and wise, with judgment stern, In curious search were seen to turn With careless glance from all the rest, And own that image first and best. The artist boy was seen to pause, Ecstatic in his rapt applause: No idle wanderer pass'd it by, But mark'd with brighter, closer eye. They linger'd there to ask and trace The legend such a form might lend; But nought was known save what its base Told, in the words, "Melaia's Friend." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. OH! DEAR TO MEMORY ARETHOSE HOURS. OH! dear to memory are those hours When every pathway led to flowers; When sticks of peppermint possess'd A sceptre's power o'er the breast, And heaven was round us while we fed On rich ambrosial gingerbread. I bless the days of infancy, When, stealing from a mother's eye, Elysian happiness was found On that celestial field, the ground; When we were busied, hands and hearts, In those important things, dirt tarts. Don't smile, for sapient, full-grown man, Oft cogitates some mighty plan; And, spell-bound by the bubble dream, He labours till he proves the scheme, About as useful and as wise As manufacturing dirt pies: There's many a change on Folly's bells Quite equals mud and oyster shells. Then shone the meteor rays of youth, Eclipsing quite the lamp of truth; And precious those bright sunbeams were That dried all tears, dispersed all care; That shed a stream of golden joy, Without one atom of alloy. Oh! ne'er in mercy strive to chase Such dazzling phantoms from their place! However trifling, mean, or wild, The deeds may seem of youth or child, While they still leave untarnish'd soul, The iron rod of stern control Should be but gentle in its sway, Nor rend the magic veil away. I doubt if it be kind or wise To quench the light in opening eyes, By preaching fallacy and woe As all that we can meet below. I ne'er respect the ready tongue, That augurs sorrow to the young; That aptly plays a sibyl's part, To promise nightshade to the heart. Let them exult! their laugh and song Are rarely known to last too long. Why should we strive with cynic frown To knock their fairy castles down? We know that much of pain and strife Must be the common lot of life: We know the world is dark and rough, But time betrays that soon enough! SAILING SONG. WE have left the still earth for the billows and breeze, 'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas; We have music, hark! hark! there's a tone o'er the deep, Like the murmuring breath of a lion asleep. There's enough of bold dash in the rich foam that laves, Just to whisper the slumber-wrapt might of the waves; But yet there's a sweetness about the full swell, Like the song of the mermaid—the chords of the shell. We have jewels. Oh! what is your casket of gems To the pearls hanging thick on the red coral stems? Are there homes of more light than the one where we are, For it nestles the dolphin and mirrors the star? We may creep, we may scud, we may rest, we may fly; There's no check to our speed, there's no dust for our eye; Oh! well may our spirits grow wild as the breeze, 'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas! THE SEA-CHILD. HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink Where every eye but his own would shrink; No music he hears but the billow's noise, And shells and weeds are his only toys. No lullaby can the mother find To sing him to rest like the moaning wind; And the louder it wails and the fiercer it sweeps, The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps. And now his wandering feet can reach The rugged tracks of the desolate beach; He creeps about like a Triton imp, To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp. He climbs, with none to guide or help, To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp; And his bold heart glows while he stands and mocks The seamew's cry on the jutting rocks. Few years have waned—and now he stands Bareheaded on the shelving sands. A boat is moor'd, but his young hands cope Right well with the twisted cable rope; He frees the craft, she kisses the tide, The boy has climbed her beaten side: She drifts—she floats—he shouts with glee, His soul hath claim'd its right on the sea. 'Tis vain to tell him the howling breath Rides over the waters with wreck and death! He'll say there's more of fear and pain On the plague-ridden earth than the storm-lash'd main. 'Twould be as wise to spend thy power In trying to lure the bee from the flower, The lark from the sky, or the worm from the grave, As in weaning the sea-child from the wave. THE MISER. "TO be frugal is wise;" and this lesson of truth Should ever be preach'd in the ears of youth. The young must be curb'd in their spendthrift haste, Lest meagre want should follow on waste: But to see the hand that is wither'd and old So eagerly clutch at the shining gold— Oh! can it be good that man should crave The dross of the world—so nigh his grave? Sad is the lot of those who pine In the gloomy depths of the precious mine! But they toil not so hard in gaining the ore, As the miser in guarding the glittering store. He counts the coin with a feasting eye, And trembles the while if a step come nigh: He adds more wealth; and a fiendish trace Of joy comes o'er his shrunken face. He seeks the bed where he cannot rest, Made close beside his idol chest; He wakes with a wilder'd, haggard stare, For he dreams a thief is busy there; He searches around—the bolts are fast, And the watchmen of the night go past. His coffers are safe; but there's fear in his brain, And the miser cannot sleep again! He never flings the blessed mite To fill the orphan child with delight. The dog may howl, the widow may sigh, He hears them not—they may starve and die. His breast is of ice, no throbbing glow Spreads there at the piercing tale of woe; All torpid and cold, he lives alone In his heaps, like the toad embedded in stone. Death comes—but the miser's friendless bier Is free from the sobbing mourner's tear; Unloved, unwept, no grateful one Will tell of the kindly deeds he'd done. Oh! never covet the miser's fame, 'Tis a cheerless halo that circles his name; And one fond heart that will truly grieve Will outweigh all the gold we can leave. THE MOTHER WHO HATH A CHILD AT SEA. THERE'S an eye that looks on the swelling cloud, Folding the moon in a funeral shroud, That watches the stars dying one by one, Till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone. There's an ear that lists to the hissing surge, As the mourner turns to the anthem dirge; That eye! that ear! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea? There's a cheek that is getting ashy white, As the tokens of storm come on with night; There's a form that's fixed at the lattice pane, To mark how the gloom gathers over the main, While the yeasty billows lash the shore With loftier sweep and hoarser roar. That cheek! that form! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea? The rushing whistle chills her blood As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood, And the icy shiver spreads to her heart As the first red lines of lightning start. The ocean boils! All mute she stands, With parted lips and tight-clasp'd hands: Oh, marvel not at her fear, for she Is a mother who hath a child at sea. She conjures up the fearful scene Of yawning waves, where the ship between, With striking keel and splinter'd mast, Is plunging hard and foundering fast. She sees her boy, with lank drench'd hair, Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair. Oh, the vision is madd'ning! No grief can be Like a mother's who hath a child at sea. She presses her brow—she sinks and kneels, Whilst the blast howls on and the thunder peals: She breathes not a word, for her passionate prayer Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear; It is pour'd in the long convulsive sigh, In the straining glance of an upturn'd eye, And a holier offering cannot be, Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea. Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control, For they suit my own bond-hating soul; I like to hear them sweeping past, Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast. But a pang will rise, with sad alloy, To soften my spirit and sink my joy, When I think how dismal their voices must be To a mother who hath a child at sea! THE FREE. THE wild streams leap with headlong sweep In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep; All fresh and strong they foam along, Waking the rocks with their cataract song. My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance, While I watch the waters dash and dance; I burn with glee, for I love to see The path of any thing that's free. The skylark springs with dew on his wings, And up in the arch of heaven he sings Trill-la, trill-la—oh, sweeter far Than the notes that come through a golden bar. The joyous bay of a hound at play, The caw of a rook on its homeward way, Oh! these shall be the music for me, For I love the voices of the free. The deer starts by with his antlers high, Proudly tossing his head to the sky; The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein, With steaming nostrils and flying mane; The clouds are stirr'd by the eaglet bird, As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard. Oh! these shall be the creatures for me, For my soul was form'd to love the free. The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave, May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave; And the one whose lot is the desert spot Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot; The thrall and state at the palace gate Are what my spirit has learnt to hate: Oh! the hills shall be a home for me, For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the free. SLEEP. I'VE mourn'd the dark long night away, With bitter tears and vain regret, Till, grief-sick, at the breaking day I've left a pillow cold and wet. I've risen from a restless bed, Sad, trembling, spiritless and weak, With all my brow's young freshness fled, With pallid lips and bloodless cheek. Hard was the task for aching eyes So long to wake, so long to weep; But well it taught me how to prize That precious, matchless blessing, sleep. I've counted every chiming hour While languishing 'neath ceaseless pain; While fever raged with demon power, To drink my breath and scorch my brain. And oh! what earnest words were given! What wild imploring prayers arose! How eagerly I ask'd of Heaven A few brief moments of repose! Oh! ye who drown each passing night In peaceful slumber, calm and deep, Fail not to kneel at morning's light, And thank your God for health and sleep. HALLOWED BE THY NAME. LIST to the dreamy tone that dwells In rippling wave or sighing tree; Go, hearken to the old church bells, The whistling bird, the whizzing bee. Interpret right, and ye will find 'Tis "power and glory" they proclaim: The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind, All publish "hallowed be thy name!" The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds To gain the altar of his sires; The hermit pores above his beads, With zeal that never wanes or tires; But holiest rite or longest prayer That soul can yield or wisdom frame, What better import can it bear, Than "Father! hallowed be thy name?" The savage kneeling to the sun, To give his thanks or ask a boon; The raptures of the idiot one, Who laughs to see the clear round moon; The saint well taught in Christian lore, The Moslem prostrate at his flame— All worship, wonder, and adore— All end in "hallowed be thy name!" Whate'er may be man's faith or creed, Those precious words comprise it still: We trace them on the bloomy mead, We hear them in the flowing rill. One chorus hails the great Supreme, Each varied breathing tells the same: The strains may differ—but the theme Is "Father, hallowed be thy name!" WINTER. WE know 'tis good that Old Winter should come, Roving awhile from his Lapland home; 'Tis fitting that we should hear the sound Of his reindeer sledge on the slippery ground: For his wide and glittering cloak of snow Protects the seeds of life below; Beneath his mantle are nurtured and born The roots of the flowers—the germs of the corn. The whistling tone of his pure strong breath, Rides purging the vapours of pestilent Death; I love him, I say, and avow it again, For God's wisdom and might show well in his train. But the naked—the poor! I know they quail With crouching limbs from the biting gale; They pine and starve by the fireless hearth, And weep as they gaze on the frost-bound earth. Stand nobly forth, ye rich of the land, With kindly heart and bounteous hand; Remember 'tis now their season of need, And a prayer for help is a call ye must heed. A few of thy blessings, a tithe of thy gold, Will save the young, and cherish the old; 'Tis a glorious task to work such good— Do it, ye great ones! Ye can, and ye should. He is not worthy to hold from heaven The trust reposed, the talents given, Who will not add to the portion that's scant, In the pinching hours of cold and want. Oh! listen in mercy, ye sons of wealth, Basking in comfort and glowing with health; Give whate'er ye can spare, and be ye sure He serveth his Maker who aideth the poor. THE ENGLISH SHIP BY MOONLIGHT. THE world below hath not for me Such a fair and glorious sight, As an English ship, on a rippling sea, In the clear and full moonlight. My heart leaps high, as I fix my eye On her dark and sweeping hull, Laying its breast on the billowy nest, Like the tired sleeping gull. The masts spring up, all tall and bold, With their heads among the stars; The white sails gleam in the silvery beam, Brailed up to the branching spars. The wind just breathing to unrol A flag that bears no stain; Proud ship! that need'st no other scroll, To warrant thy right on the main. The sea-boy hanging on the shrouds Chants out his fitful song, And watches the scud of fleecy clouds That melts as it floats along. Oh! what is there on the sluggard land That I love so well to mark, In the hallow'd light of the still midnight, As I do a dancing bark! The ivied tower looks well in that hour, And so does an old church spire, When the gilded vane and Gothic pane Seem tinged with quivering fire. The hills shine out in the mellow ray, The love-bower gathers a charm, And beautiful is the chequering play On the willow's graceful arm. But the world below holds not for me Such a fair and glorious sight, As a brave ship floating on the sea, In the full and clear moonlight. WATER. WINE, wine, thy power and praise Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays: But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school, May sneer at my strain as the song of a fool: Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn How the tongue can cleave and the veins can burn. Should ye ever be one of a fainting band, With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand, I would wager the thing I'm most loath to spare, That your bacchanal chorus would never ring there: Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell What treasures exist in the cold deep well; Sink in despair on the red parched earth, And then ye may reckon what water is worth. Famine is laying her hand of bone On the ship becalm'd in a torrid zone; The gnawing of hunger's worm is past, But fiery thirst lives on to the last. The stoutest one of the gallant crew Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue; The hot blood stands in each glassy eye, And "Water, oh God!" is the only cry. There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead, No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed; The herd's low bleat and the sick man's pant Are mournfully telling the boon we want. Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, How soon we find it is better than gold; And water, I say, hath a right to claim The minstrel's song and a tithe of fame. SNOW. BRAVE Winter and I shall ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he. I like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window pane: I joy to see him come marching forth Begirt with the icicle gems of the north; But I like him best when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white. A cheer for the snow—the drifting snow! Smoother and purer than beauty's brow! The creature of thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet so richly spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diadems crown'd; 'Tis the fairest scene we can have below— Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting snow! The urchins gaze with eloquent eye To see the flakes go dancing by; In the thick of the storm how happy are they To welcome the first deep snowy day; Shouting and pelting—what bliss to fall Half-smother'd beneath the well-aim'd ball! Men of fourscore, did ye ever know Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow? I'm true to my theme, for I loved it well, When the gossiping nurse would sit and tell The tale of the geese—though hardly believed, I doubted and question'd the words that deceived. I rejoice in it still, and love to see The ermine mantle on tower and tree. 'Tis the fairest scene we can have below— Hurrah! then, hurrah! for the drifting snow! BECKON WHERE THE WIMPLING WATERS. VAINLY do ye seek to win me To the festal loud and gay: There's a rebel voice within me That will answer—"Nay!" Beckon where the wimpling waters Ripple o'er their golden bed— Where the dye of purple slaughters Never has been shed. Beckon to the woodside dingle While the nectar dew is fresh, Where the coppice branches mingle In one leafy mesh;— Where the heath and furze-bloom glitter, Mocking all your princely gems; Where young thrushes perch and twitter On the mossy stems. Lead to forests: I will follow— Dell or desert, any where— So that forms all false and hollow Cannot meet me there. I have sigh'd, and shrunk, and trembled, 'Mid your pleasure-gilded wiles, Heart-sick, while my cheek dissembled, Wearing labour'd smiles. There my brow is ever aching— There my sated eyes grow hot; Listless, tired—but ne'er partaking Joys that suit me not. Never, never shall ye win me To the festal loud and gay: Nature's rebel voice within me Firmly answers—"Nay!" OLD DOBBIN. HERE'S a song for old Dobbin whose temper and worth Are too rare to be spurn'd on the score of his birth; He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed? 'Tis deeds and not blood make the man and the steed. He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain, Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane; All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy The spark of good humour that dwelt in his eye. The summer had waned, and the autumn months roll'd, Into those of stern winter, all dreary and cold; But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance, The colt of the common was left to his chance. Half starved and half frozen, the hail-storm would pelt, Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt; But we pitied the brute, and, though laugh'd at by all, We fill'd him a manger, and gave him a stall. He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame: You may judge of his fame, when his price was a crown, But we christen'd him Dobbin, and call'd him our own. He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change, The knowing ones said it was mortally strange, For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste, Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste. The line of his symmetry was not exact, But his paces were clever, his mould was compact; And his shaggy thick coat now appear'd with a gloss, Shining out like the gold that's been purged of its dross. We broke him for service, and tamely he wore Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore; Every farm has a steed for all work and all hours, And Dobbin, the sturdy bay pony, was ours. He carried the master to barter his grain, And ever return'd with him safely again: There was merit in that, for, deny it who may, When the master could not, Dobbin could find his way. The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back, 'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack: The team horses jolted, the roadster play'd pranks, So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks. We fun-loving urchins would group by his side; We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride; We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail, But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail. We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck; We kiss'd his brown muzzle, and hugg'd his thick neck; Oh! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob Ever burst when they threaten'd to sell our dear Dob. He stood to the collar, and tugg'd up the hill, With the pigs to the market, the grist to the mill; With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace, He was stanch to his work, and content with his place. When the hot sun was crowning the toil of the year, He was sent to the reapers with ale and good cheer; And none in the corn-field more welcome was seen Than Dob, and his well-laden panniers I ween. Oh! these days of pure bliss shall I ever forget, When we deck'd out his head with the azure rosette; All frantic with joy to be off to the fair, With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there? He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years; But, mercy! how's this? my eye's filling with tears. Oh! how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When Memory plays an old tune on the heart. There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast, But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest, Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen, With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green. His best years have gone by, and the master who gave The stern yoke to his youth, has enfranchised the slave. So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife, For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life. THE DEWDROP. THE sky hath its star, the deep mine hath its gem, And the beautiful pearl lights the sea; But the surface of earth holds a rival for them, And a lustre more brilliant for me. I know of a drop where the diamond now shines; Now the blue of the sapphire it gives: It trembles—it changes—the azure resigns, And the tint of the ruby now lives. Anon the deep emerald dwells in its gleam Till the breath of the south wind goes by, When it quivers again, and the flash of its beam, Pours the topaz-flame swift on the eye. Look, look, on the grass-blade, all freshly impearl'd, There are all of your jewels in one; You may find every wealth-purchased gem in the world In the dewdrop that's kiss'd by the sun. Apollo's own circlet is matchless, they say; Juno envies its sparkles and light; For 'tis form'd of drops lit by his own burning ray, And Olympus shows nothing so bright. STANZAS.—THE TOMB. FEW years ago I shunn'd the tomb, And turn'd me from a tablet-stone; I shiver'd in the churchyard gloom, And sicken'd at a bleaching bone. Then all were round my warm young heart— The kindred tie—the cherish'd form; I knew not what it was to part, And give them to the dust and worm. But soon I lost the gems of earth, I saw the dearest cold in death; And sorrow changed my joyous mirth To searing drops and sobbing breath. I stood by graves all dark and deep, Pale, voiceless, wrapt in mute despair; I left my soul's adored to sleep In stirless, dreamless slumber there. And now I steal at night to see The soft, clear moonbeams playing o'er Their hallow'd beds, and long to be Where all most prized have gone before. Now I can calmly gaze around On osier'd heaps, with yearning eye, And murmur o'er the grassy mound— "'Tis a glorious privilege to die." The Grave hath lost its conquering might, And Death its dreaded sting of pain, Since they but ope the path of light To lead me to the loved again. THE QUIET EYE. THE orb I like is not the one That dazzles with its lightning gleam, That dares to look upon the sun, As though it challenged brighter beam. That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll; Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly— But not for me: I prize the soul That slumbers in a quiet eye. There's something in its placid shade That tells of calm unworldly thought; Hope may be crown'd, or joy delay'd— No dimness steals, no ray is caught: Its pensive language seems to say, "I know that I must close and die;" And death itself, come when it may, Can hardly change the quiet eye. There's meaning in its steady glance, Of gentle blame or praising love, That makes me tremble to advance A word that meaning might reprove. The haughty threat, the fiery look, My spirit proudly can defy; But never yet could meet and brook The upbraiding of a quiet eye. There's firmness in its even light, That augurs of a breast sincere; And, oh! take watch how ye excite That firmness till it yield a tear. Some bosoms give an easy sigh, Some drops of grief will freely start; But that which sears the quiet eye Hath its deep fountain in the heart. THE SMUGGLER BOY. WE stole away at the fall of night, When the red round moon was deep'ning her light, But none knew whither our footsteps bent, Nor how those stealthy hours were spent; For we crept away to the rocky bay, Where the cave and craft of a fierce band lay; We gave the signal cry, "Ahoy!" And found a mate in the smuggler boy. His laugh was deep, his speech was bold, And we loved the fearful tales he told Of the perils he met in his father's bark, Of the chase by day and the storm by dark; We got him to take the light boat out, And gaily and freshly we dash'd about, And nought of pleasure could ever decoy From the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy. We caught his spirit and learnt to love The cageless eagle more than the dove; And wild and happy souls were we, Roving with him by the heaving sea: He whisper'd the midnight work they did, And show'd us where the kegs were hid, All secrets were ours— a word might destroy,— But we never betray'd the smuggler boy. We sadly left him, bound to range A distant path of care and change; We have sought him again, but none could relate The place of his home, or a word of his fate: Long years have sped, but we dream of him now, With the red cap toss'd on his dauntless brow; And the world hath never given a joy Like the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy. STANZAS. THOU hast left us long, my mother dear; Time's sweeping tide has run— But fail'd to wash away the tear From the eye of thy youngest one. The heart so closely knit to thine, That held thee as its all, Adored too fondly to resign Its love with the coffin and pall. Thou art lost to these arms, my mother dear, But they crave to unfold thee still; And thy spirit may find those arms entwin'd Round thy gravestone damp and chill. The reptile thing thy lips may greet, The shroud enwraps thy form, But I covet the place of thy winding sheet, And am jealous of the worm. Thou hast fled from my gaze, my mother dear, But sleep is a holy boon, For its happy visions bring thee near: Ah! why do they break so soon? I look around when voices ring, Where thine once used to be; And deep are the secret pangs that wring, For my eye still asks for thee. Oh! I worship thee yet, my mother dear, Though my idol is buried in gloom: I cannot pour my love in thine ear, But I breathe it o'er thy tomb. Death came to prove if that love would hold When the sharpest ordeal tried; But it pass'd like the flame that tests the gold, And hath only purified! THE GALLANT ENGLISH TAR. THERE'S one whose fearless courage yet has never fail'd in fight, Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, and our right; But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow, Cry "Quarter!" and that arm will be the first to spare its foe. He recks not though proud glory's shout may be the knell of death, The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English tar." Let but the sons of want come nigh and tell their tale to him, He'll chide their eyes for weeping while his own are growing dim: "Cheer up," he cries, "we all must meet the storm as well as calm"— But turning on his heel Jack slips the guineas in their palm. He'll hear no long oration, but tell you every man Is born to act a brother's part, and do what good he can. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English tar." The dark blue jacket that enfolds the sailor's manly breast, Bears more of real honour than the star and ermine vest. The tithe of folly in his head may wake the lands-man's mirth, But nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth. His heart is warm, his hand is true, his word is frank and free, And though he plays the ass on shore, he's lion of the sea. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English tar." RECIPE FOR A SERENADE. TAKE a "light" or "wild" guitar; Let it rhyme with "evening star:" Paint your sky the very blue Of the real sapphire hue. Let the moon be high and bright, Shedding lots of "tender light;" Then go on with "myrtle bowers," "Pearly dewdrops," "perfumed flowers;" "Fanning zephyrs"—just awake— "Gondolet" and "glassy lake," "Balmy odours," "orange grove," To chime with "dove," or "love," or "rove;" And, above all, pray don't forget The lady's locks of gold or jet, "Swan-like neck," of Alpine snow, Such "fairy form" as sylph might show; Let her blooming cheeks and lips Rose and coral far eclipse; Then her eyes (of course) must be Like diamonds—choice simile! Vow thy constant, doting heart, Aches, and quakes, and breaks to part; That Death alone can ease your pain, If she list not to your strain. Arrange your cloak in graceful fold; Never dream of catching cold; Take your station, sound the key, Two flats are proper, "Major" "B." And when all these essentials mingle In one smooth, soft, mellifluous gingle; I'm sure you'll find that thus is made A most delightful serenade. THE GIPSY'S TENT. OUR fire on the turf, and our tent 'neath a tree— Carousing by moonlight, how merry are we! Let the lord boast his castle, the baron his hall, But the house of the gipsy is widest of all. We may shout o'er our cups, and laugh loud as we will, Till echo rings back from wood, welkin, and hill; No joys seem to us like the joys that are lent To the wanderer's life and the gipsy's tent. Some crime and much folly may fall to our lot; We have sins, but pray where is the one who has not? We are rogues, arrant rogues:—yet remember! 'tis rare— We take but from those who can very well spare. You may tell us of deeds justly branded with shame, But if great ones heard truth you could tell them the same: And there's many a King would have less to repent, If his throne were as pure as the gipsy's tent. Pant ye for beauty? Oh, where would ye seek Such bloom as is found on the tawny one's cheek: Our limbs, that go bounding in freedom and health, Are worth all your pale faces and coffers of wealth. There are none to control us; we rest or we roam; Our will is our law, and the world is our home: E'en Jove would repine at his lot if he spent A night of wild glee in the gipsy's tent. OUR NATIVE SONG. OUR native song! our native song! Oh! where is he who loves it not? The spell it holds is deep and strong, Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. Let other music greet our ear With thrilling fire or dulcet tone; We speak to praise, we pause to hear, But yet—oh! yet—'tis not our own! The anthem chant, the ballad wild, The notes that we remember long— The theme we sung with lisping tongue, 'Tis this we love—our native song! The one who bears the felon's brand, With moody brow and darken'd name, Thrust meanly from his fatherland, To languish out a life of shame; Oh! let him hear some simple strain— Some lay his mother taught her boy: He'll feel the charm, and dream again Of home, of innocence, and joy! The sigh will burst, the drops will start, And all of virtue, buried long— The best, the purest in his heart, Is waken'd by his native song. Self-exiled from our place of birth, To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay, The memory of our own fair earth May chance awhile to fade away: But should some minstrel echo fall Of chords that breathe Old England's fame, Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn, True to the land we love and claim. The high! the low! in weal or woe, Be sure there's something coldly wrong About the heart that does not glow To hear its own, its native song. BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I NEVER see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart. My smile expires into a sigh; I feel a struggling in the eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way: For soul and brain will travel back Through memory's chequer'd mazes, To days when I but trod life's track, For Buttercups and Daisies. Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, Of sober speech and silver hair, Who carry counsel, wise and sage, With all the gravity of age; Oh! say, do ye not like to hear The accents ringing in your ear, When sportive urchins laugh and shout, Tossing those precious flowers about, Springing, with bold and gleesome bound, Proclaiming joy that crazes, And chorusing the magic sound Of Buttercups and Daisies? Are there, I ask, beneath the sky, Blossoms that knit so strong a tie With childhood's love? Can any please, Or light the infant eye like these? No, no, there's not a bud on earth, Of richest tint or warmest birth, Can ever fling such zeal and zest Into the tiny hand and breast. Who does not recollect the hours When burning words and praises Were lavish'd on those shining flowers, Buttercups and Daisies? There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings Are closest link'd to simplest things— And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past: And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf-sod o'er me, plant my grave With Buttercups and Daisies. THE IDIOT-BORN. "OUT, thou silly moon-struck elf, Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!" This is what the wise ones say, Should the idiot cross their way: But if we would closely mark, We should see him not all dark; We should find we must not scorn The teaching of the idiot-born. He will screen the newt and frog, He will cheer the famish'd dog; He will seek to share his bread With the orphan, parish fed; He will offer up his seat To the stranger's wearied feet. Selfish tyrants, do not scorn The teaching of the idiot-born. Use him fairly, he will prove How the simple breast can love; He will spring with infant glee To the form he likes to see. Gentle speech or kindness done, Truly binds the witless one. Heartless traitors, do not scorn The teaching of the idiot-born. He will point with vacant stare At the robes proud churchmen wear; But he'll pluck the rose, and tell God hath painted it right well. He will kneel before his food, Softly saying, "God is good." Haughty prelates, do not scorn The teaching of the idiot-born. Art thou great as man can be?— The same hand moulded him and thee. Hast thou talent?—taunt and jeer Must not fall upon his ear. Spurn him not—the blemish'd part Had better be the head than heart. Thou wilt be the fool to scorn The teaching of the idiot-born. THE WILLOW TREE. TREE of the gloom, o'erhanging the tomb, Thou seem'st to love the churchyard sod; Thou ever art found on the charnel ground, Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod. When thy branches trail to the wintry gale, Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men; When the world is bright in a summer's light, 'Tis only the wretched that love thee then. The golden moth and the shining bee Will seldom rest on the willow tree. The weeping maid comes under thy shade, Mourning her faithful lover dead; She sings of his grave in the crystal wave, Of his sea-weed shroud and coral bed. A chaplet she weaves of thy downy leaves, And twines it round her pallid brow; Sleep falls on her eyes while she softly sighs, "My love, my dearest, I come to thee now." She sits and dreams of the moaning sea, While the night wind creeps through the willow tree. The dying one will turn from the sun, The dazzling flowers, and luscious fruit, To set his mark in thy sombre bark, And find a couch at thy moss-clad root. He is fading away like the twilight ray, His cheek is pale and his glance is dim; But thy drooping arms, with their pensive charms, Can yield a joy till the last for him; And the latest words on his lips shall be, "Oh, bury me under the willow tree!" THE GIPSY CHILD. HE sprung to life in a crazy tent, Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent; Rude was the voice and rough were the hands That sooth'd his wailings and swathed his bands. No tissue of gold, no lawn was there, No snowy robe for the new-born heir, But the mother wept, and the father smiled With heartfelt joy o'er their gipsy child. He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad, With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward; Half naked, he wades in the limpid stream, Or dances about in the scorching beam. The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen Hath never fallen on him, I ween; But fragments are spread and the wood-firepiled, And sweet is the meal of the gipsy child. He wanders at large, while maidens admire His raven hair and his eyes of fire; They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue, With the deep carnation flushing through: He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth, All pure and white as their own pearl wreath; And the courtly dame and damsel mild Will turn to gaze on the gipsy child. Up with the sun he is roving along, Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song; He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl, And is baying again to the watch-dog's howl. His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold, He is free from the evils of fashion and gold; His dower is scant and his life is wild, But kings might envy the gipsy child. NORAH M'SHANE. I'VE left Ballymornach a long way behind me, To better my fortune I've cross'd the big sea; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me, And, faith! I'm as wretched as wretched can be. I think of the buttermilk, fresh as a daisy, The beautiful hills and the emerald plain;— And oh! don't I oftentimes think myself crazy, About that young black-eyed rogue, Norah M'Shane. I sigh for the turf-pile, so cheerfully burning, When barefoot I trudg'd it from toiling afar; When I toss'd in the light the thirteen I'd been earning, And whistled the anthem of "Erin go bragh." In truth, I believe that I'm half broken-hearted, To my country and love I must get back again; For I've never been happy at all since I parted From sweet Ballymornach and Norah M'Shane. Oh! there's something so dear in the cot I was born in, Though the walls are but mud and the roof is but thatch; How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the morning, What music in lifting the rusty old latch! 'Tis true I'd no money, but then I'd no sorrow, My pockets were light, but my heart had no pain, And if I but live till the sun shines to-morrow, I'll be off to old Ireland and Norah M'Shane. WHILE THE CHRISTMAS LOG IS BURNING. HAIL to the night when we gather once more All the forms we love to meet; When we've many a guest that's dear to our breast, And the household dog at our feet. Who would not be in the circle of glee When heart to heart is yearning— When joy breathes out in the laughing shout While the Christmas log is burning? 'Tis one of the fairy hours of life, When the world seems all of light; For the thought of woe, or the name of a foe, Ne'er darkens the festive night. When bursting mirth rings round the hearth, Oh! where is the spirit that's mourning, While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme, And the Christmas log is burning? Then is the time when the grey old man Leaps back to the days of youth; When brows and eyes bear no disguise, But flush and gleam with truth. Oh! then is the time when the soul exults, And seems right heavenward turning; When we love and bless the hands we press, While the Christmas log is burning. THE POET. JOVE said, one day, he should like to know What would part the child of song from his lyre; And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go, With all their bribes and powers, below, Nor return till they wrought his desire. The agents departed—Jove's will must be done, They vow'd to perform the deed full soon: Vainly they search'd in the crowd and the sun, But at last they found a high-soul'd one, Alone with his harp and the moon. Fortune first tempted: she scatter'd her gold, And placed on his temples a gem-bright rim; But he scarcely glanced on the wealth as it roll'd, He said the circlet was heavy and cold, And only a burden to him. Venus came next, and she whisper'd rare things, And praised him for scorning the bauble and pelf; She promised him Peris, in all but the wings; But he laugh'd, and told her, with those soft strings He could win such creatures himself. Oppression and Poverty tried their spell, Nigh sure he would quail at such stern behest; His pittance was scant, in a dark dank cell, Where the foam-spitting toad would not choose to dwell, But he still hugg'd the harp to his breast. They debated what effort the next should be, When Death strode forth with his ponderous dart; He held it aloft— "ye should know," cried he, "This work can only be done by me, So, at once, my barb to his heart!" It struck: but the last faint flash of his eye Was thrown on the lyre as it fell from his hand: The trophy was seized and they sped to the sky, Where the Thunderer flamed in his throne on high, And told how they did his command. Jove heard, and he scowl'd with a gloomier frown— 'Twas the cloud Pride lends to keep Sorrow unseen; He put by his sceptre and flung his bolt down, And snatch'd from the glory that haloed his crown, The rays of most burning sheen. He hasten'd to earth, by the minstrel he knelt, And fashion'd the beams round his brow in a wreath: He ordain'd it immortal, to dazzle, to melt, And a portion of godhead since then has still dwelt On the Poet that slumbers in death. THE SEXTON. "MINE is the fame most blazon'd of all; Mine is the goodliest trade; Never was banner so wide as the pall, Nor sceptre so fear'd as the spade." This is the lay of the Sexton gray, King of the churchyard he; While the mournful knell of the tolling bell Chimes in with his burden of glee. He dons a doublet of sober brown, And a hat of slouching felt; The mattock is over his shoulder thrown, The heavy keys clank at his belt. The dark damp vault now echoes his tread, While his song rings merrily out; With a cobweb canopy over his head, And coffins falling about. His foot may crush the full-fed worms, His hand may grasp a shroud; His gaze may rest on skeleton forms, Yet his tones are light and loud. He digs the grave, and his chant will break As he gains a fathom deep— "Whoever lies in the bed I make, I warrant will soundly sleep." He piles the sod, he raises the stone, He clips the cypress tree; But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone— No fellowship holds he. For the Sexton gray is a scaring loon— His name is link'd with death; The children at play, should he cross their way, Will pause with fluttering breath. They herd together, a frighten'd host, And whisper with lips all white,— See, see, 'tis he, that sends the ghost To walk the world at night. The old men mark him, with fear in their eye, At his labour 'mid skulls and dust; They hear him chant, "The young may die, But we know the aged must." The rich will frown, as his ditty goes on, "Though broad your lands may be, Six narrow feet to the beggar I mete, And the same shall serve for ye." The ear of the strong will turn from his song, And Beauty's cheek will pale, "Out, out," cry they, "what creature would stay, To list thy croaking tale!" Oh! the Sexton gray, is a mortal of dread, None like to see him come near; The orphan thinks on a father dead, The widow wipes a tear. All shudder to hear his bright axe chink, Upturning the hollow bone; No mate will share his toil or his fare, He works, he carouses alone. By night or by day, this, this is his lay: "Mine is the goodliest trade; Never was banner so wide as the pall, Nor sceptre so fear'd as the spade." LOVE. 'TIS well to wake the theme of love, When chords of wild ecstatic fire Fling from the harp, and amply prove The soul as joyous as the lyre. Such theme is blissful when the heart Warms with the precious name we pour; When our deep pulses glow and start Before the idol we adore. Sing ye, whose doating eyes behold, Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone, Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold, The prized, the beautiful, thine own. But, should the ardent hopes of youth Have cherish'd dreams that darkly fled; Should passion, purity, and truth, Live on, despairing o'er the dead; Should we have heard some sweet voice hush'd, Breathing our name in latest vow; Should our fast heavy tears have gush'd Above a cold, yet worshipp'd brow;— Oh! say, then, can the minstrel choose The themes that gods and mortals praise? No, no, the spirit will refuse, And sadly shun such raptured lays. For who can bear to touch the string That yields but anguish in its strain; Whose lightest notes have power to wring The keenest pangs from breast and brain? "Sing ye of love in words that burn," Is what full many a lip will ask; But love the dead, and ye will learn Such bidding is no gentle task. Oh! pause in mercy, ere ye blame The one who lends not love his lyre; That which ye deem ethereal flame, May be to him a torture pyre. THE CLOUDS. BEAUTIFUL clouds! I have watch'd ye long, Fickle and bright as a fairy throng; Now ye have gather'd golden beams, Now ye are parting in silver streams, Now ye are tinged with a roseate blush, Deepening fast to a crimson flush; Now like aerial sprites at play, Ye are lightly dancing another way; Melting in many a pearly flake, Like the cygnet's down on the azure lake; Now ye gather again, and run To bask in the blaze of a setting sun; And anon ye serve as Zephyr's car, Flitting before the evening star. Now ye ride in mighty form, With the arms of a giant to nurse the storm; Ye grasp the lightning, and fling it on earth, All flashing and wild as a maniac's mirth; Ye cavern the thunder, and bravely it roars, While the forest groans, and the avalanche pours; Ye launch the torrent with headlong force, Till the rivers hiss in their boiling course; Ye come, and your trophies are scatter'd around In the wreck on the waters, the oak on the ground. Oh! where is the eye that doth not love The glorious phantoms that glide above? That hath not look'd on the realms of air With wondering soul and bursting prayer! Oh! where is the spirit that hath not bow'd To its God at the shrine of a passing cloud? THE ENGLISHMAN. THERE'S a land that bears a well-known name, Though it is but a little spot; I say 'tis the first on the scroll of fame, And who shall aver it is not? Of the deathless ones who shine and live In arms, in arts, or song, The brightest the whole wide world can give To that little land belong. 'Tis the star of earth, deny it who can, The island home of an Englishman. There's a flag that waves o'er every sea, No matter when or where; And to treat that flag as aught but the free, Is more than the strongest dare. For the lion spirits that tread the deck Have carried the palm of the brave; And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck, But never float over a slave. Its honour is stainless, deny it who can, And this is the flag of an Englishman. There's a heart that leaps with burning glow The wrong'd and the weak to defend; And strikes as soon for a trampled foe As it does for a soul-bound friend. It nurtures a deep and honest love, The passions of faith and pride, And yearns with the fondness of a dove To the light of its own fire-side. 'Tis a rich rough gem, deny it who can, And this is the heart of an Englishman. The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone, And boldly claim his right, For he calls such a vast domain his own, That the sun never sets on his might. Let the haughty stranger seek to know The place of his home and birth; And a flush will pour from cheek to brow While he tells his native earth. For a glorious charter, deny it who can, Is breathed in the words "I'm an Englishman." FIRE BLANDLY glowing, richly bright, Cheering star of social light; While I gently heap it higher, How I bless thee, sparkling fire! Who loves not the kindly rays Streaming from the temper'd blaze? Who can sit beside his hearth Dead to feeling, stern to mirth? Who can watch the crackling pile, And keep his breast all cold the while? Fire is good, but it must serve: Keep it thrall'd—for if it swerve Into Freedom's open path, What shall check its maniac wrath? Where's the tongue that can proclaim The fearful work of curbless flame? Darting wide and shooting high, It lends a horror to the sky; It rushes on to waste, to scare, Arousing Terror and Despair; It tells the utmost earth can know About the demon scenes below; And sinks at last, all spent and dead, Among the ashes it has spread. Sure the poet is not wrong To glean a moral from the song. Listen, youth! nor scorn, nor frown, Thou must chain thy passions down: Well to serve, but ill to sway, Like the fire they must obey. They are good in subject state To strengthen, warm, and animate; But if once we let them reign, They sweep with desolating train, 'Till they but leave a hated name, A ruin'd soul, and blacken'd fame. HERE WAS MY HOME. HERE was my home, when the vine-stalks laid Their arms on the topmost stone, When the dove-cage hung in the jessamine shade, And the rose stopp'd the bee in its drone. I remember the pear-tree, whose branches would trail With their burden of melting fruit; But the spot where it stood breeds the toad and the snail, The axe has been laid at its root. Here was my home, when my heart was glad, And gay as the flowers I trod; But I come to it now and my bosom is sad, My tear-drops have moisten'd the sod. For I see the wild ivy beginning to creep Up the walls that are crumbling and gray; And where are the eyes that shall gaze and not weep, When the homes of our childhood decay? THE ACORN. BEAUTIFUL germ! I have set thee low In the dewy earth—strike, spring and grow. Oh! cleave to the soil, and thou may'st be The King of the woods, a brave rare tree. Acorn of England, thou may'st bear Thy green head high in the mountain air. Another age, and thy mighty form May scowl at the sun and mock at the storm. A hundred years, and the woodman's stroke May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak. Let time roll on, and thy planks may ride In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide. Thou may'st baffle the waters, and firmly take The winds that sweep and waves that break; And thy vaunted strength shall as nobly stand The rage of the sea as the storm on the land. A hundred years, and in some fair hall Thou may'st shine as the polish'd wainscot wall; And ring with the laugh and echo the jest Of the happy host and the feasting guest. Acorn of England! deep in the earth May'st thou live and burst in flourishing birth. May thy root be firm and thy broad arms wave, When the hand that plants thee is cold in the grave. SONG OF OLD TIME. I WEAR not the purple of earth-born kings, Nor the stately ermine of lordly things; But monarch and courtier, though great they be, Must fall from their glory and bend to me. My sceptre is gemless; yet who can say They will not come under its mighty sway? Ye may learn who I am, there's the passing chime, And the dial to herald me, Old King Time! Softly I creep, like a thief in the night, After cheeks all blooming and eyes all light; My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow, In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow. Who laughs at my power? the young and the gay; But they dream not how closely I track their way. Wait till their first bright sands have run, And they will not smile at what Time hath done. I eat through treasures with moth and rust; I lay the gorgeous palace in dust; I make the shell-proof tower my own, And break the battlement, stone from stone. Work on at your cities and temples, proud man, Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can; But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall, And Time, Old Time, will be king after all. THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY. THE holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay— Come give the holly a song; For it helps to drive stern Winter away, With his garment so sombre and long. It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnish'd green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen. Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs over peasant and king: While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glitt'ring boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing. The gale may whistle, and frost may come, To fetter the gurgling rill: The woods may be bare, and the warblers dumb— But the holly is beautiful still. In the revel and light of princely halls, The bright holly-branch is found; And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls, While the brimming horn goes round. Then drink to the holly, &c. The ivy lives long, but its home must be Where graves and ruins are spread; There's beauty about the cypress tree, But it flourishes near the dead: The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe, But it tells of tears and blood: I sing the holly, and who can breathe Aught of that that is not good? Then sing to the holly, &c. THE THAMES. LET the Rhine be blue and bright In its path of liquid light, Where the red grapes fling a beam Of glory on the stream; Let the gorgeous beauty there Mingle all that's rich and fair; Yet to me it ne'er could be Like that river, great and free, The Thames! the mighty Thames! Though it bear no azure wave, Though no pearly foam may lave, Or leaping cascades pour Their rainbows on its shore; Yet I ever chose to dwell Where I heard its gushing swell; And never skimm'd its breast, But I warmly prais'd and blest The Thames! the mighty Thames! Can ye find in all the world A braver flag unfurl'd Than that which floats above The stream I sing and love? Oh! what a burning glow Has thrill'd my breast and brow, To see that proud flag come With glory to its home. The Thames! the mighty Thames! Did ribs more firm and fast E'er meet the shot or blast, Than the gallant barks that glide On its full and steady tide? Would ye seek a dauntless crew, With hearts to dare and hands to do? You'll find the foe proclaims They are cradled on the Thames. The Thames! the mighty Thames! They say the mountain child Oft loves his torrent wild So well, that should he part He breaks his pining heart; He grieves with smother'd sighs, Till his wearing spirit dies. And so I yearn to thee, Thou river of the free, My own, my native Thames! STANZAS. THEY told me in my earlier years Life was a dark and tangled web, A gloomy sea of bitter tears, Where Sorrow's influx had no ebb. But such was vainly taught and said, My laugh rung out with joyous tone; The woof possess'd one brilliant thread, Of rainbow colours, all my own. They talk'd of trials, sighs, and grief, And call'd the world a wilderness, Where dazzling bud or fragrant leaf But rarely sprung to cheer and bless. But there was one dear precious flower Engrafted in my bosom's core, Which made my home an Eden bower, And caused a doubt if Heaven held more. I boasted—till a mother's grave Was heap'd and sodded—then I found The sunshine stricken from the wave, And all the golden thread unwound. Where was the flower I had worn So fondly, closely, in my heart? The bloom was crush'd, the root was torn, And left a cureless, bleeding part. Preach on who will—say "Life is sad," I'll not refute as once I did; You'll find the eye that beam'd so glad Will hide a tear beneath its lid. Preach on of woe; the time hath been I'd praise the world with shadeless brow: The dream is broken. I have seen A mother die: I'm silent now. I LAUGHED AT THE STORM. DID my heart e'er fail, or my cheek turn pale, When I stood on the starting deck? Did my strong arm flinch, did I quail an inch, Though the beautiful bark was a wreck? No, no; it might blow, and wake all below, Death might come in his demon form; But, fierce with delight, I laugh'd outright, Ha! ha! how I laugh'd at the storm! For mine is a soul that defies control, Too proud for the palace or throne; And I was glad the waters had A spirit to match with my own. I bared my teeth to the gulf beneath, While the salt foam laved my lips; My upturn'd eye rejoiced the sky Was lost in the dark eclipse. The groaning blast that levell'd the mast, Was pleasing music to me; I dared to rave at the giant wave, Though that wave my shroud might be. Though I heard the yell of a last farewell In a messmate's gurgling cry, Yet I firmly stood 'mid the lightnings and flood, To laugh at the storm or to die! NAE STAR WAS GLINTIN OUT ABOON. NAE star was glintin out aboon, The cluds were dark and hid the moon; The whistling gale was in my teeth, And round me was the deep snaw wreath. But on I went the dreary mile, And sung right cantie a' the while: I gae my plaid a closer fauld, My hand was warm, my heart was bauld, I did na heed the storm and cauld, While ganging to my Katie. But when I trod the same way back, It seem'd a sad and waefu' track; The brae and glen were lone and lang, I did na sing my cantie sang, I felt how sharp the sleet did fa', And coud na face the wind at a': Oh, sic a change! how could it be? I ken fu' weel, and sae may ye— The sunshine had been gloom to me, While ganging frae my Katie. CUPID'S ARROW. YOUNG Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow; "'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say, 'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow. There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim; 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name. "I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; 'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching—I'll break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low, That Zephyr might puff it right out." Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored; "There take it, young sir; try it now—if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, The wounded and dead were untold; But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold. A B C. OH, thou Alpha Beta row, Fun and freedom's earliest foe; Shall I e'er forget the primer, Thumb'd beside some Mrs. Trimmer,— While mighty problem held me fast, To know if Z was first or last? And all Pandora had for me Was emptied forth in A B C. Teazing things of toil and trouble, Fount of many a rolling bubble, How I striv'd, with pouting pain, To get thee quarter'd on my brain. But when the giant feat was done, How nobly wide the field I'd won! Wit, reason, wisdom, all might be Enjoy'd through simple A B C. Steps that lead to topmost height Of worldly fame and human might, Ye win the orator's renown, The poet's bays, the scholar's gown; Philosophers must bend and say 'Twas ye who ope'd their glorious way. Sage, statesman, critic, where is he Who's not obliged to A B C? Ye really ought to be exempt From slighting taunt and cool contempt; But drinking deep from learning's cup, We scorn the hand that fill'd it up. Be courteous, pedants—stay and thank Your servants of the Roman rank, For F.R.S. and LL.D. Can only spring from A B C. LINES TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND. LADY, perchance my untaught strain May little suit a royal ear; But I would break my lyre in twain Ere aught it yield be insincere. There's been enough of dulcet tone To praise thy charms and greet thy youth; But I, though standing by thy throne, Would proudly dare to sing the truth. I cannot join the minstrel throng Who pour idolatrous pretence; Because I deem such fulsome song Must sadly pall upon thy sense. Thou art a star, whose leading light Must beacon through a stormy way: Shine out, and, if thou guid'st aright, Our hearts will bless the saving ray. If thou would'st walk a better path Than regal steps have chiefly trod, So sway thy sceptre, that it hath Some glorious attributes of God. Peace, Mercy, Justice, mark his reign, And these should dwell with all who rule; Beware! resist the poison bane Of tyrant, knave, or courtier fool. Thou hast been train'd by goodly hand To fill thy place of mighty care; And Heaven forbid that Faction's band Should turn our hopes to blank despair. Lean on thy people, trust their love, Thou'lt never find a stronger shield; The "toiling herd" will nobly prove What warm devotion they can yield. Remember, much of weal or woe To millions rests alone with thee; Be firm, and let Old England show A nation happy, wise, and free. A LOVE SONG. DEAR Kate, I do not swear and rave, Or sigh sweet things, as many can; But though my lip ne'er plays the slave, My heart will not disgrace the man. I prize thee—ay, my bonnie Kate, So firmly fond this breast can be, That I would brook the sternest fate If it but left me health and thee. I do not promise that our life Shall know no shade on heart or brow; For human lot and mortal strife Would mock the falsehood of such vow. But when the clouds of pain and care Shall teach us we are not divine, My deepest sorrows thou shalt share, And I will strive to lighten thine. We love each other, yet perchance The murmurs of dissent may rise; Fierce words may chase the tender glance, And angry flashes light our eyes. But we must learn to check the frown, To reason rather than to blame; The wisest have their faults to own, And you and I, girl, have the same. You must not like me less, my Kate, For such an honest strain as this; I love thee dearly, but I hate The puling rhymes of "kiss" and "bliss." There's faith in all I've said or sung, I woo thee as a man should woo; And though I lack a honey'd tongue, Thou'lt never find a breast more true. THE YOUNG MARINERS. BRED up beside the rugged coast, three brothers bold were we, Wild urchin mariners, who knew no play-place but the sea: We spurn'd all space the earth could give—the valley, hill, and field; The main—the boundless main alone, our reckless sports could yield. We long had borrow'd sail and skiff,—obliged to be content With any crazy, sluggard hull that kindly fisher lent: At last our spirits, like our limbs, all strong and broad had grown, And all our thoughts were centered in "a vessel of our own!" The eldest-born, our hope and pride, the brightest of the three, Had enter'd on the busy world, a sturdy shipwright he, And mighty project fill'd our heads—we sat in council sage, With earnest speech and gravity beseeming riper age: We dared to think, we dared to say, that he could frame a boat, And many others said the same, but question'd,— "would it float?" Yet lines were drawn and timbers bought, all well and wisely plann'd, And steadily he set to work to try his "'prentice hand." He soon gave proof of goodly skill, and built a tiny craft, While grey-haired sailors shook their heads and beardless landsmen laugh'd; "'Tis a sweet cockleshell," cried they, "well form'd to please a boy; With silken sails the thing will be a pretty water toy." We took their taunts all quietly, till she was fit to launch, And then some eyes began to find she look'd a little stanch; All trim and neat, rigg'd out complete, we hail'd our fairy bark, And chose her name the Petrel, from the bird of storm and dark. We three, and Will, the smuggler's son, composed her stripling crew, Her sheets were white as breakers' spray, her pennon old true blue; And blessed was the breezy hour, and happy wights were we, When first we gave her wings the wind, and saw her take the sea: She clear'd the bay and shot away with free and steady speed; Ne'er faster sped the Desert child upon his Arab steed; And though that squally day had served the fishers to deter, The Petrel fairly show'd us that it fail'd to frighten her. We reef'd—she slack'd; "helm down!" she tack'd; she scudded, went about, All nobly done, our hopes were won—what triumph fill'd our shout! And miser never prized his heaps, nor bridegroom loved his bride, As we did our brave Petrel when she cut the booming tide. Full many a fearful trip we made, no hazard did we shun, We met the gale as readily as butterflies the sun; No terror seized our glowing hearts, the blast but raised our mirth, We felt as safe upon her planks as by our household hearth. When many a large and stately ship lay rolling like a log, With more of water in her hold than that which served for grog, "What, ho!" we'd cry, while skimming by, "Look here, ye boasting band— Just see what boys with water toys and silken sails can stand!" Old Nep might lash his dolphins on with fierce and splashing wrath, And summon all the myrmidoms of death about his path; The Triton trumpeter might sound his conch horn long and loud, Till scaly monsters woke and toss'd the billows to the cloud: The Nereids might scream their glee, bluff Boreas howl and rave, But still the little Petrel was as saucy as the wave: By day or night, in shade or light, a fitting mate was she, To ramble with her sponsor-bird, and live on any sea. She tempted with a witching spell, she lured us to forget A sister's fear, a mother's tear, a father's chiding threat: Away we'd dash through foam and flash, and take the main as soon Amid the scowling tempest as beneath the summer moon. Some thirty years of toil and moil have done their work since then, And changed us three young mariners to staid and thoughtful men; But when by lucky chance we meet, we ne'er forget to note The perils that we dared with such a "wee thing" of a boat. Oh! were it so that time could give some chosen moments back, Full well we know the sunniest that ever lit life's track; We'd ask the days beside the coast, of freedom, health, and joy— The ocean for our play-place, and the Petrel for our toy. THIS IS THE HOUR FOR ME. I'LL sail upon the mighty main—but this is not the hour, There's not enough of wind to move the bloom in lady's bower: Oh! this is ne'er the time for me: our pretty bark would take Her place upon the ocean like a rose-leaf on a lake. There's not a murmur on the ear, no shade to meet the eye; The ripple sleeps; the sun is up, all cloudless in the sky; I do not like the gentle calm of such a torpid sea; I will not greet the glassy sheet—'tis not the hour for me. Now, now the night-breeze freshens fast, the green waves gather strength, The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length, Our boat is jumping in the tide—quick, let her hawser slip; Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship. Away, away! what nectar spray she flings about her bow, What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow: She knows she bears a soul that dares, and loves the dark rough sea. More sail! I cry; let, let her fly!—this is the hour for me. NIGHT. THE God of day is speeding his way Through the golden gates of the west; The rosebud sleeps in the parting ray, The bird is seeking its nest. I love the light—yet welcome, Night! For, beneath thy darkling fall, The troubled breast is sooth'd in rest, And the slave forgets his thrall. The peasant child, all strong and wild, Is growing quiet and meek; All fire is hid 'neath his heavy lid, The lashes yearn to the cheek. He roves no more in gamesome glee, But hangs his weary head; And loiters beside the mother's knee To ask his lowly bed. The butterflies fold their wings of gold, The dew falls chill in the bower; The cattle wait at the kineyard gate, The bee hath forsaken the flower. The roar of the city is dying fast, Its tongues no longer thrill; The hurrying tread is faint at last, The artisan's hammer is still. Night steals apace. She rules supreme; A hallow'd calm is shed: No footstep breaks, no whisper wakes— 'Tis the silence of the dead. The hollow bay of a distant dog Bids drowsy Echo start; The chiming hour from an old church tower Strikes fearfully on the heart. All spirits are bound in slumber sound, Save those o'er a death-bed weeping; Or the soldier one that paces alone, His guard by the watchfire keeping. With ebon wand and sable robe, How beautiful, Night, art thou; Serenely set on a throne of jet, With stars about thy brow! Thou comest to dry the mourner's eye, That, wakeful, is ever dim; To hush for awhile the grieving sigh, And give strength to the wearied limb. Hail to thy sceptre, Ethiop Queen! Fair mercy marks thy reign, For the care-worn breast may take its rest, And the slave forget his chain. OH! NEVER BREATHE A DEAD ONE'SNAME. OH! never breathe a dead one's name When those who loved that one are nigh: It pours a lava through the frame That chokes the breast and fills the eye. It strains a chord that yields too much Of piercing anguish in its breath; And hands of mercy should not touch A string made eloquent by death. Oh! never breathe a lost one's name To those who call'd that one their own: It only stirs the smouldering flame That burns upon a charnel stone. The heart will ache and well nigh break To miss that one for ever fled; And lips of mercy should not wake A love that cherishes the dead. A SONG FOR MERRY HARVEST. BRING forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string, The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing A song for merry harvest, and the one who will not bear His grateful part, partakes a boon he ill deserves to share. The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes, The laughter of the gleaner child, the heart's own music floats. Up! up! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives, Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives. The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine, And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine; Who prizes more the foaming ale may gaze upon the plain, And feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain. The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed, May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread. Awake, then, all! 'tis Nature's call, and every voice that lives, Shall welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives. THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND. THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle; The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while; But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls, And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals: We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn; We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The ploughshare of old England, and the sturdy peasant band! The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told, We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold: Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there; God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled every where. The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust, But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust. Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The ploughshare of old England, and the sturdy peasant band! THY WILL BE DONE. LET the scholar and divine Tell us how to pray aright; Let the truths of Gospel shine With their precious hallow'd light; But the prayer a mother taught Is to me a matchless one; Eloquent and spirit fraught Are the words—"Thy will be done." Though not fairly understood, Still those words, at evening hour, Implied some Being, great and good, Of mercy, majesty, and power. Bending low on infant knee, And gazing on the setting sun, I thought that orb his home must be, To whom I said—"Thy will be done." I have search'd the sacred page, I have heard the godly speech, But the lore of saint or sage Nothing holier can teach. Pain has wrung my spirit sore, But my soul the triumph won, When the anguish that I bore Only breathed—"Thy will be done." They have serv'd in pressing need, Have nerv'd my heart in every task, And howsoe'er my breast may bleed, No other balm of prayer I ask. When my whiten'd lips declare Life's last sands have almost run, May the dying breath they bear Murmur forth—"Thy will be done." THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart, Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there, And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I linger'd near The hallow'd seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey; And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. Years roll'd on, but the last one sped, My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled; I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. GRATITUDE. THE hound will fawn on any one That greets him with a kind caress; The flower will turn towards the sun That nurtures it in loveliness. The drooping bird, with frozen wing, That feeds in winter at your sill, Will turn his glossy plumes in spring, And perch about your window still. The grazing steed will mark the voice That rules him with a gentle word; And we may see the brute rejoice, As though he loved the tones he heard. I've taught the speckled frog to leap At twilight for the crumbs I've spread; I've lured the fawn till it would keep Beside me, crouching, bound and led. We find the fiercest things that live, The savage born, the wildly rude, When sooth'd by Mercy's hand, will give Some faint response of gratitude. But man!—oh, blush, ye lordly race!— Shrink back, and question thy proud heart! Do ye not lack that thankful grace Which ever forms the soul's best part? Will ye not take the blessings given, The priceless boon of ruddy health, The sleep unbroken, peace unriven, The cup of joy, the mine of wealth! Will ye not take them all? and yet Walk from the cradle to the grave, Enjoying, boasting, and forget To think upon the God that gave. Thou'lt even kneel to blood-stain'd kings, Nor fear to have thy serfdom known; Thy knee will bend for bauble things, Yet fail to seek its Maker's throne. The bosom that would most repine, At slightest comfort snatch'd away— The lip that murmurs to resign, Is last to thank, is last to pray. Call home thy thoughts, vain child of dust! However sad thy lot may be, There is a something good, that must Demand acknowledgment from thee. What would'st thou have from Him above? Gaze but on Nature's ample field, And that one type of mystic love Will ask more praise than thou can'st yield. THE ENGLISH HOLIDAY. EACH minstrel hand must fondly greet Young Spring, the redolent and sweet: All voices hail the breezy balm, The peeping leaf, and golden palm. The freshen'd sod and deep'ning sky Wake hope and light in heart and eye; And cold's the lyre that does not own A richer breathing in its tone. I doubly welcome cheering Spring, The climbing sun and budding spray; And why? because they ever bring A common English holiday. May blessings fall upon the hour When Freedom takes the sovereign power; When the swarth brow may wear a smile, And lose the lines of care awhile; When drum and trumpet, bravely woke By infant breath and pigmy stroke, Proclaim the gladsome "uproar wild" Is shared e'en by the lisping child. I love to mark the bounding tread, The treasured vestments, clean and gay; I prize the happiness that's shed Upon a people's holiday. 'Tis true that revelry and noise May herald forth their frantic joys— That Prudence flies the motley crowd, "Quite shock'd" at Folly's bells so loud. Some few may loathe the merry din, Deeming blythe laughter deadly sin, And spurn the thronging multitude, As "creatures" worthless, base, and rude: Yet think, their lives of toil and gloom But rarely meet a sunny ray, And none perchance that e'er illume So brightly as a holiday. Such hours, such days, too soon are o'er, Too few! Ah! would that they were more! The outburst of a million's mirth Is the most grateful sound on earth. Shade to his name—woe to his breast, Whose selfish aim would strive to wrest And trample down their sacred right With tyrant zeal, and iron might! Hail to the festal wide and free, And ne'er may charter know decay That ratifies a people's glee, And grants an English holiday! THE FAIRY OF THE SEA. THERE'S a frigate on the waters, fit for battle, storm, or sun, She dances like a life-boat, though she carries flag and gun; I'm rich and blest while I can call that gallant craft my own, I'm king of her, and Jove himself may keep his crown and throne. She'll stem the billows mountain high, or skim the moonlit spray, She'll take a blow and face a foe, like lion turn'd at bay. Whate'er may try, she'll stand the test, the brave, the staunch, the free, She bears a name of stainless fame, the Fairy of the Sea. The gale is up, she feels the breath, the Petrel is behind, She travels through the white foam like an arrow on the wind. Softly, softly—hold her in—let her slacken in her pace, She'll do the pilot's bidding with a greyhound's gentle grace. The rocks are round her—what of that? she turns them like a swan; There are boiling breakers near, but she is safely creeping on. Hurrah! hurrah! she's clear again! More canvass, helm a-lee! Away she bounds, like deer from hounds, the Fairy of the Sea. I've met with life's rough-weather squalls, and run on shoals ashore; All pass'd me under scudding-sails, and friends were friends no more: But when the storm-fiend did its worst, and blanch'd the firmest crew, No timber yawn'd, no cordage broke, my bark, my bark was true. We've lived together, closely bound, too long to lightly part, I love her like a living thing, she's anchor'd in my heart, But death must come, and come he may, right welcome he shall be, So that I sleep ten fathom deep in the Fairy of the Sea. STANZAS. I'VE track'd the paths of the dark wild wood, No footfall there but my own; I've linger'd beside the moaning flood, But I never felt alone. There were lovely things for my soul to meet, Rare work for my eye to trace: I held communion close and sweet With a Maker—face to face. I have sat in the cheerless, vacant room, At the stillest hour of night, With nought to break upon the gloom But the taper's sickly light; And there I have conjured back again The loved ones, lost and dead, Till my swelling heart and busy brain Have hardly deem'd them fled. I may rove the waste or tenant the cell, But alone I never shall be; While this form is a home where the spirit may dwell, There is something to mate with me. Wait till ye turn from my mindless clay, And the shroud o'er my breast is thrown, And then, but not till then, ye may say, That I am left alone! THE SAILOR'S GRAVE. OUR bark was out—far, far from land, When the fairest of our gallant band Grew sadly pale, and waned away Like the twilight of an autumn day. We watch'd him through long hour's of pain, But our cares were lost, our hopes were vain: Death-struck, he gave no coward alarm, For he smiled as he died on a messmate's arm. He had no costly winding-sheet, But we placed a round shot at his feet, And he slept in his hammock as safe and sound As a king in his lawn-shroud, marble-bound. We proudly deck'd his funeral vest With the English flag about his breast; We gave him that as the badge of the brave, And then he was fit for his sailor's grave. Our voices broke—our hearts turn'd weak— Hot tears were seen on the brownest cheek, And a quiver play'd on the lips of pride, As we lower'd him down the ship's dark side: A plunge—a splash—and our task was o'er; The billows roll'd as they roll'd before; But many a rude prayer hallow'd the wave That closed above the sailor's grave. I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER! I MISS thee, my mother! Thy image is still The deepest impress'd on my heart, And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill Ere a line of that image depart. Thou wert torn from my side when I treasur'd thee most— When my reason could measure thy worth; When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost Could be never replaced upon earth. I miss thee, my mother, in circles of joy, Where I've mingled with rapturous zest; For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy All the fairy web spun in my breast! Some melody sweet may be floating around— 'Tis a ballad I learnt at thy knee; Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the sound, For my fingers oft woke it for thee. I miss thee, my mother; when young health has fled, And I sink in the languor of pain, Where, where, is the arm that once pillow'd my head, And the ear that once heard me complain? Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall, For the fond and the true are yet mine; I've a blessing for each—I am grateful to all— But whose care can be soothing as thine? I miss thee, my mother, in summer's fair day, When I rest in the ivy-wreath'd bower, When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray, Or gaze on thy favourite flower. There's the bright gravel-path where I play'd by thy side, When time had scarce wrinkled thy brow, Where I carefully led thee with worshipping pride When thy scanty locks gather'd the snow. I miss thee, my mother, in winter's long night: I remember the tales thou would'st tell— The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright, Oh! who could e'er tell them so well! Thy corner is vacant—thy chair is removed; It was kind to take that from my eye, Yet relics are round me—the sacred and loved— To call up the pure, sorrow-fed sigh. I miss thee, my mother! Oh, when do I not? Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot, And such tie of devotion was riven; For when thou wert with me my soul was below, I was chain'd to the world I then trod; My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound, but now They have follow'd thy spirit to God! THE HEART THAT'S TRUE. TELL me not of sparkling gems, Set in regal diadems; You may boast your diamonds rare, Rubies bright and pearls so fair: But there's a peerless gem on earth, Of richer ray and purer worth; 'Tis priceless, but 'tis worn by few— It is, it is the heart that's true. Bring the tulip and the rose, While their brilliant beauty glows; Let the storm-cloud fling a shade, Rose and tulip both will fade: But there's a flower that still is found, When mist and darkness close around; Changeless, fadeless in its hue— It is, it is the heart that's true. Ardent in its earliest tie, Faithful in its latest sigh; Love and Friendship, godlike pair, Find their throne of glory there. Proudly scorning bribe and threat, Nought can break the seal once set: All the evil gold can do Cannot warp the heart that's true. First in Freedom's cause to bleed, First in joy when slaves are freed; Their hearts were true, and what could quell The might of Washington or Tell? Oh! there is one mortal shrine Lighted up with rays divine. Seek it, yield the homage due, Deify the heart that's true. THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE. WE gather'd round the festive board, The crackling faggot blazed, But few would taste the wine that pour'd, Or join the song we raised. For there was now a glass unfill'd— A favour'd place to spare; All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill'd, The loved one was not there. No happy laugh was heard to ring, No form would lead the dance; A smother'd sorrow seem'd to fling A gloom in every glance. The grave had closed upon a brow, The honest, bright, and fair; We miss'd our mate, we mourn'd the blow— The loved one was not there. THE WORLD. TALK who will of the world as a desert of thrall, Yet—yet, there is bloom on the waste: Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall, There are honey-drops too for the taste. We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay, And note all the shades of our lot; But the rich scintillations that brighten our way, Are bask'd in, enjoy'd, and forgot. Those who look on mortality's ocean aright, Will not moan o'er each billow that rolls, But dwell on the glories, the beauties, the might, As much as the shipwrecks and shoals. How thankless is he who remembers alone All the bitter, the drear, and the dark! Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone, Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark? We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part, But in meeting the dear one again, Have we never rejoiced with that wildness of heart Which outbalances ages of pain? Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss, When the soul, in its fulness of love, Would waver, if bidden to choose between this And the paradise promised above? Though the eye may be dimm'd with its grief-drop awhile, And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear, Yet pensive indeed is that face where the smile Is not oftener seen than the tear. There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around, There are spots where the poison-shrub grows; Yet are there not hours when nought else can be found But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose? O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours, And strange is the path that we take, If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers, To soften the thorn and the brake. The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife, The soul's harmony often may mar; But I think we must own, in the discords of life, 'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar. Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom, And the voice of the grateful will tell, That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb, Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well. Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppress'd O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine, Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast, And some pleasure must kindle in mine. Then say not the world is a desert of thrall, There is bloom, there is light on the waste; Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall, There are honey-drops too for the taste. THERE'S A STAR IN THE WEST. THERE'S a star in the west that shall never go down Till the records of valour decay; We must worship its light, though it is not our own, For liberty burst in its ray. Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard By a freeman, and thrill not his breast? Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word As the Bethlehem star of the west? "War, war to the knife! be enthrall'd or ye die," Was the echo that woke in his land; But it was not his voice that promoted the cry, Nor his madness that kindled the brand. He raised not his arm, he defied not his foes, While a leaf of the olive remain'd; Till, goaded with insult, his spirit arose Like a long-baited lion unchain'd. He struck with firm courage the blow of the brave, But sigh'd o'er the carnage that spread: He indignantly trampled the yoke of the slave, But wept for the thousands that bled. Though he threw back the fetters and headed the strife, Till man's charter was fairly restored; Yet he pray'd for the moment when freedom and life Would no longer be press'd by the sword. Oh! his laurels were pure, and his patriot name In the page of the future shall dwell, And be seen in all annals, the foremost in fame, By the side of a Hofer and Tell. Revile not my song, for the wise and the good Among Britons have nobly confess'd, That his was the glory and ours was the blood Of the deeply-stain'd field of the west. STANZAS. THE dark and rugged mountain steep, The sloping emerald glade, The beam-lit valley, where vines may creep, The hare-bell low in the shade: The towering hill, the shimmering rill, The fields and forest trees— Oh, he is blind who cannot find Good company in these. I have seen the harvest sun pour down Its rays on the rustling sheaf, Till gold flash'd out from the wheatear brown, And flame from the poppy's leaf. I have heard the music the woods have made In deep and sullen roar, When the mighty winds of Winter play'd On branches grey and hoar. I have seen the merry Spring steal nigh, And my soul has leap'd to meet The rainbow clouds that flitted on high, The daisy that kiss'd my feet. I have watch'd the slowly gathering gloom Of mournful Autumn throw Its pensive shade on the dying bloom, Like sorrow on beauty's brow: And though I have garner'd little of light From learning's glorious store, These—these have taught God's mercy and might, And who can teach me more? My spirit has glow'd, the rapt, the blest, Flush'd with the fervent zeal That may gush from the eyes and burn in the breast, But the weak lips ne'er reveal. The giant rock, the lowliest flower Can lead to Him above, And bid me worship the hand of power, Of mystery and love. Does my heart grow proud! I need but turn To Nature, and confess A Maker's greatness—shrink and learn My own unworthiness! HANG UP HIS HARP, HE'LL WAKENO MORE! HIS young bride stood beside his bed, Her weeping watch to keep; Hush! hush! he stirr'd not—was he dead, Or did he only sleep? His brow was calm, no change was there, No sigh had fill'd his breath; Oh! did he wear that smile so fair In slumber or in death? "Reach down his harp," she wildly cried, "And if one spark remain, Let him but hear 'Loch Erroch's side,' He'll kindle at the strain. "That tune e'er held his soul in thrall, It never breathed in vain; He'll waken as its echoes fall, Or never wake again." The strings were swept, 'twas sad to hear Sweet music floating there; For every note call'd forth a tear Of anguish and despair. "See! see!" she cried, "the tune is o'er, No opening eye, no breath; Hang up his harp, he'll wake no more, He sleeps the sleep of death." THE BONNIE SCOT. THE bonnie Scot! he hath nae got A hame o' sun an' light; His clime hath aft a dreary day An' mony a stormy night. He hears the blast gae crooning past, He sees the snawflake fa'; But what o' that? He'll tell ye still, His land is best o' a': He wadna' tine, for rose or vine, The gowans round his cot; There is nae bloom like heath an' broom, To charm the bonnie Scot. The roarin' din o' flood an' linn Is music unco sweet; He loves the pine aboon his head, The breckans 'neath his feet: The lavorick's trill, sae clear an shrill, Is matchless to his ear; What joy for him like bounding free To hunt the fleet dun deer? Nae wonder he sae proudly scorns A safter, kinder lot; He kens his earth gave Wallace birth, That brave and bonnie Scot. CHILDHOOD. HAIL to the days of romp and racket, Of azure sash and skirtless jacket! Let Fortune lavish all she will, There's something in the bosom still Insinuates that "prisoner's-base " Was worth all manhood's pomp and place. There's nought that memory extols So glowingly as dumps and dolls; We cannot fancy that we meet With "honey pots" so truly sweet As those we form'd "long, long ago," To taste and weigh "all of a row!" I doubt if those who fairly claim The highest altitude of fame, Are half so happy and content As when their strength and wits were spent Endeavouring to climb and keep The pinnacle of some earth-heap, Shouting with wild vocif'rous glee, "King of the Castle—I am he!" I'm not quite sure that Love and Hope Make up for ball and skipping-rope; And though my digits now may hold The precious note or shining gold, I'm certain that my wealth was more When nought but copper form'd my store: What spendthrift bliss it was to stand With eager gaze and pence in hand, Before the tempting sugar'd stall, Choosing 'twixt cake and brandy-ball! How soon we bluster, fume, and fret, At each discourteous thrust we get In after years! What pride we show At jostled side or trodden toe— But who e'er heeded kick or cuff Receiv'd in "whoop" or "blindman's buff?" The awkward thump—the tumble down Elicited nor plaint nor frown. Up—foremost in the game again, The vest might keep its dusty stain; The knuckle grazed, was eyed askance, With cool heroic Spartan glance; Or should a bursting sudden tear, Like summer's passing shower, appear, While the big drop yet gemm'd the lash, Joy's sun-ray would again outflash, And, vivid with some new delight, Yield such a rainbow, deep and bright, That all who mark'd the meteor eye Would almost fail to wish it dry. Oh, ye who deign to list my rhyme, Do ye not love that olden time, When marbles, buttons, and such things, Outbalanced empires, states, and kings? I know ye'll freely answer "Yes," And will not like the minstrel less Whose muse descends to sing and praise Life's fairy epoch—"Childhood's days!" SONG OF THE CARRION CROW. THE wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl, Rare brave beasts are they; The worm may crawl in the carcass foul, The tiger may glut o'er his prey: The bloodhound may hang with untired fang, He is cunning and strong, I trow; But Death's stanch crew holds none more true Than the broad-wing'd carrion crow. My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam, Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching; Where the clattering chain rings back again To the night-wind's desolate screeching. To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow, Merrily rock'd am I; And I note with delight the traveller's fright As he cowers and hastens by. I scent the deeds of fearful crime, I wheel o'er the parricide's head; I have watch'd the sire, who, mad with ire, The blood of his child hath shed. I can chatter the tales at which The ear of innocence starts; And ye would not mark my plumage as dark If ye saw it beside some hearts. I have seen the friend spring out as a foe, And the guest waylay his host; And many a right arm strike a blow The lips never dared to boast. I have seen the soldier millions adored Do other than deed of the brave, When he wore a mask as well as a sword, And dug a midnight grave. I have flutter'd where secret work has been done, Wrought with a trusty blade; But what did I care, whether foul or fair, If I shared the feast it made? A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash, A short and heavy groan! Revenge was sweet, its work was complete, The dead and I were alone! I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek, I perch'd on the clammy brow; And a dainty treat was that fresh meat To the greedy carrion crow. I have follow'd the traveller dragging on O'er the mountains long and cold; For I knew at last he must sink in the blast, Though spirit was never so bold. I hover'd close—his limbs grew stark, His life-stream stood to congeal; And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw I should soon have another meal. He fell, and slept like a fair young bride, In his winding-sheet of snow; And quickly his breast had a table guest In the hungry carrion crow. If my pinions ache in the journey I take, No resting-place will do Till I light alone on a churchyard stone, Or a branch of the gloomy yew. Famine and plague bring joy to me, For I love the harvest they yield; And the fairest sight I ever see Is the crimson battle-field. Far and wide is my charnel range, And rich carousal I keep, Till back I come to my gibbet home, To be merrily rock'd to sleep. When the world shall be spread with tombless dead, And darkness shroud all below, What triumph and glee to the last wilt be For the sateless carrion crow. ENGLAND. MY heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "merry isle," I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile; I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade, I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade; I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne, Where every flag that comes ere now has lower'd to our own. Look round the globe, and tell me can ye find more blazon'd names, Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames? My soul is link'd right tenderly to every shady copse, I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops; The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field. I thread the wood, I rob the hedge, and glad content is mine, Although they lack the orange-branch, pomegranate, date, and vine. I covet not the rarest fruit exotic region shows, While England hath its hazel-nuts, its blackberries, and sloes. I'll ask if there's a British boy, whate'er may be his rank, Who does not dearly love to climb his native bramble bank; Who would not trudge for many a mile to gain a nutting track, Proud of the crook'd stick in his hand and basket at his back? Our songsters, too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word, Their plumage dazzles not—yet say, can sweeter strains be heard? Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush, Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush. I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp, Where roses list the bulbul's tale, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp; I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar, Or hearken to the Western flood in wild and falling roar; I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd, I ne'er could see too many of the wonders God has shower'd; Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven, Could I forget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon? I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land, Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand; Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know, And little recks "the place of birth," or colour of the brow; Yet, though I'd hail a foreign name among the first and best, Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast; I'd point to hundreds who have done the most e'er done by man, And cry "There's England's glory scroll—show brighter if ye can!" "THY KINGDOM COME." 'TIS human lot to meet and bear The common ills of human life; There's not a breast but hath its share Of bitter pain and vexing strife. The peasant in his lowly shed— The noble 'neath a gilded dome— Each will at some time bow his head, And ask and hope, "Thy kingdom come." When some deep sorrow, surely slow, Despoils the cheek and eats the heart, Laying our busy projects low, And bidding all earth's dreams depart— Do we not smile, and calmly turn From the wide world's tumultuous hum, And feel the immortal essence yearn, Rich with the thought, "Thy kingdom come?" The waves of care may darkly bound And buffet, till, our strength outworn, We stagger as they gather round, All shatter'd, weak, and tempest-torn: But there's a light-house for the soul, That beacons to a stormless home; It safely guides through roughest tides— It shines, it saves! "Thy kingdom come!" To gaze upon the loved in death, To mark the closing beamless eye, To press dear lips, and find no breath— This—this is life's worst agony! But God, too merciful, too wise, To leave the lorn one in despair, Whispers, while snatching those we prize, "My kingdom come!" "Ye'll meet them there!" THE BOW. A CHEER for Robin Hood And Nottingham's famed wood, When the greensward was the merry men's resort; When the tough and springy yew Was the bravest tree that grew, And the bow held foremost place in English sport. Right glorious I ween, Was the olden forest scene, When bugles rang and sturdy yeomen met; When the flying bird was hit, The willow sapling split, And bow and shaft had fame unrivall'd yet. In the fields our fathers won, We shall find the bow has done Some work our annals proudly may record; Did they prove it bent in vain, On Poictiers or Cressy's plain? Had the arrow there less glory than the sword? The whizzing barb that flew Bore its message home, and true, As swift as sun-ray, free as eagle's wing; And many a haughty foe Was taught to feel and know What English arms could do with wood and string. See, see the archer hold His weapons firm and bold, With spreading chest, and clear uncover'd brow; The arrow 'neath his eye, Drawn to the head, let fly, Fix'd in the prey. Ha! ha! who scorns the bow? Then a cheer for Robin Hood And Nottingham's famed wood, When the greensward was the merry men's resort; When the tough and springy yew Was the bravest tree that grew, And the bow held foremost place in English sport. THE FOREST TREES. UP with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave proudly in the breeze, For our cradle bands and coffin boards Must come from the forest trees. We bless thee for thy summer shade, When our weak limbs fail and tire; Our thanks are due for thy winter aid, When we pile the bright log fire. Oh! where would be our rule on the sea, And the fame of the sailor band, Were it not for the oak and cloud-crown'd pine That spring on the quiet land? When the ribs and masts of the good ship live, And weather the gale with ease; Take his glass from the tar who will not give A health to the forest trees. Ye lend to life its earliest joy, And wait on its latest page; In the circling hoop for the rosy boy, And the easy chair for age. The old man totters on his way, With footsteps short and slow; But without the stick for his help and stay Not a yard's length could he go. The hazel twig in the stripling's hand Hath magic power to please; And the trusty staff and slender wand Are pluck'd from the forest trees. Ye are seen in the shape of the blessed plough And the merry ringing flail; Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home And the sacred altar rail. In the rustic porch, the wainscotted wall, In the gay triumphal car; In the rude-built hut or the banquet hall, No matter! there ye are! Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords! Wave proudly in the breeze; From our cradle bands to our coffin boards We're in debt to the forest trees. THE HORSE. THE horse! the brave, the gallant horse— Fit theme for the minstrel's song! He hath good claim to praise and fame, As the fleet, the kind, the strong. What of your foreign monsters rare? I'll turn to the road or course, And find a beauteous rival there In the horse, the English horse. Behold him free on his native sod, Looking fit for the sun-god's car; With a skin as sleek as a maiden's cheek, And an eye like the Polar star. Who wonders not such limbs can deign To brook the fettering girth, As we see him fly the ringing plain, And paw the crumbling earth? His nostrils are wide with snorting pride, His fiery veins expand; And yet he'll be led by a silken thread, Or sooth'd by an infant's hand. He owns the lion's spirit and might, But the voice he has learnt to love Needs only be heard, and he'll turn to the word As gentle as a dove. The Arab is wise who learns to prize His barb before all gold; But is his barb more fair than ours, More generous, fast, or bold? A song for the steed, the gallant steed— Oh! grant him a leaf of bay; For we owe much more to his strength and speed Than man can ever repay. Whatever his place, the yoke, the chace, The war-field, road, or course, One of Creation's brightest and best Is the horse, the noble horse! THE KING OF THE WIND. HE burst through the ice-pillar'd gates of the North, And away on his hurricane wings he rush'd forth; He exulted all free in his might and his speed, He mock'd at the lion and taunted the steed; He whistled along, through each cranny and creek, He whirl'd o'er the mountains with hollow-toned shriek; The arrow and eagle were laggard behind, And alone in his flight sped the King of the Wind. He swept o'er the earth—the tall battlements fell, And he laugh'd, as they crumbled, with maniac yell; The broad oak of the wood dared to wrestle again, Till, wild in his fury, he hurl'd it in twain; He grappled with pyramids, works of an age, And dire records were left of his havoc and rage; No power could brave him, no fetters could bind, Supreme in his sway was the King of the Wind. He career'd o'er the waters with death and despair, He wreck'd the proud ship and his triumph was there; The cheeks that had blanch'd not at foeman or blade, At the sound of his breathing turn'd pale and afraid; He rock'd the stanch lighthouse, he shiver'd the mast, He howl'd—the strong life-boat in fragments was cast; And he roar'd in his glory, "Where, where will ye find A despot so great as the King of the Wind!" MY GRAVE. SWEET is the ocean grave, under the azure wave, Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes; Where pearls and amber meet, decking the winding sheet, Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs. Let the proud soldier rest, wrapp'd in his gory vest, Where he may happen to fall on his shield; To sink in the glory-strife was his first hope in life, Dig him his grave on the red battle-field. Lay the one great and rich in the strong cloister niche, Give him his coffin of cedar and gold; Let the wild torchlight fall, flouting the velvet pall, Lock him in marble vault darksome and cold. But there's a sunny hill, fondly remember'd still, Crown'd with fair grass and a bonnie elm tree; Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf, There be the resting-place chosen by me! Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there, Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod; Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask "Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God!" There the wind, loud and strong, whistles its winter song, Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep; 'Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by my soul and ear, Let it breathe on where I sleep the last sleep. There in the summer days rest the bright flashing rays, There spring the wild flowers—fair as can be; Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip-bell, These be the grave flowers chosen by me. There would I lie alone, mark'd by no sculptur'd stone, Few will regret when my spirit departs; And I loathe the vain charnel fame, praising an empty name, Dear after all but to two or three hearts. Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph, Painting man spotless and pure as the dove? If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth, All that I heed is its record above. 'Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remember'd still, Where my young footsteps climb'd, happy and free; Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf— There be the sleeping-place chosen by me. SONG OF THE SUN. SUPREME of the sky—no throne so high— I reign a monarch divine; What have ye below that doth not owe Its glory and lustre to mine? Has beauty a charm I have not help'd To nurture in freshness and bloom? Can a tint be spread—can a glance be shed Like those I deign to illume? Though ye mimic my beams, as ye do and ye will, Let all galaxies meet, I am mightiest still! The first red ray that heralds my way, Just kisses the mountain top; And splendour dwells in the cowslip bells While I kindle each nectar drop: I speed on my wide refulgent path, And Nature's homage is given; All tones are pour'd to greet me adored As I reach the blue mid-heaven, And the sweetest and boldest, the truly free, The lark and the eagle come nearest to me. The glittering train so praised by man, The moon, night's worshipp'd queen, The silvery scud, and the rainbow's span, Snatch from me their colours and sheen. I know when my radiant streams are flung, Creation shows all that is bright, But I'm jealous of nought save the face of the young, Laughing back my noontide light: I see nothing so pure or so dazzling on earth, As childhood's brow with its halo of mirth. My strength goes down in the crystal caves, I gem the billow's wide curl, I paint the dolphin and burnish the waves, I tinge the coral and pearl. Love ye the flowers? What power, save mine, Can the velvet rose unfold? Who else can purple the grape on the vine, Or flush the wheat-ear with gold? Look on the beam-lit wilderness spot— 'Tis more fair than the palace, where I come not. Though giant clouds ride on the whirlwind's tide, And gloom on the world may fall, I yet flash on in gorgeous pride, Untarnish'd above them all. So the pure warm heart for awhile may appear, In probations of sorrow and sin, To be dimm'd and obscured, but trial or tear Cannot darken the spirit within. Let the breast keep its truth, and life's shadows may roll, But they quench not, they reach not the sun nor the soul. THE MOURNERS. KING Death sped forth in his dreaded power To make the most of his tyrant hour: And the first he took was a white-robed girl, With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl. Her fond betroth'd hung over the bier, Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear; He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain, With frantic speech and burning brain; "There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is gone, Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!" The sire was robb'd of his eldest-born, And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn: Other scions were round as good and fair, But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir. "My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry, "Since my darling is lost I too would die." The valued friend was snatch'd away, Bound to another from childhood's day; And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair, "Oh! he sleeps in the tomb—let me follow him there!" A mother was taken whose constant love Had nestled her child like a fair young dove, And the heart of that child to the mother had grown, Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone; Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe, But the tide of anguish run strong below; And the reft one turn'd from all that was light, From the flowers of day and the stars of night; Breathing where none might hear or see— "Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be." Death smiled as he heard each earnest word, "Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferr'd; I'll see thee again in a fleeting year, And if grief and devotion live on sincere, I promise then thou shalt share the rest Of the being now pluck'd from thy doting breast; Then if thou cravest the coffin and pall As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall." And Death fled till Time on his rapid wing Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king. But the lover was ardently wooing again, Kneeling in serfdom and proud of his chain; He had found an idol to adore, Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before; His step was gay, his laugh was loud, As he led the way for the bridal crowd; And his brow own'd not a moment's shade, Though he went by the grave where his first love laid. "Ha! ha!" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear That I am a guest not wanted here!" The father was seen in his children's games, Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names! And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms: His voice rung out in the merry noise, He was first in all their hopes and joys; He ruled their sports in the setting sun, Nor gave a thought to the missing one. "Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart, "Nay! nay!" shriek'd the father, "in mercy depart!" The friend again was quaffing the bowl, Warmly pledging his faith and soul; His bosom cherish'd with glowing pride A stranger form that sat by his side; His hand the hand of that stranger press'd, He praised his song, he echoed his jest, And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate Made a blank of the name so prized of late. "See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past, "How bravely the bonds of friendship last!" But the orphan child! Oh, where was she? With clasping hands and bended knee, All alone on the churchyard's sod, Mingling the names of mother and God. Her dark and sunken eye was hid, Fast, weeping beneath the swollen lid; Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill, Betraying the wound was unheal'd still; And her smother'd prayer was yet heard to crave A speedy home in the self-same grave. Her's was the love all holy and strong— Her's was the sorrow fervent and long— Her's was the spirit whose light was shed As an incense fire above the dead. Death linger'd there and paused awhile, But she beckon'd him on with welcoming smile. "There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find, But a mother leaves no equal behind." And the kindest blow Death ever gave, Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave. SONG OF THE RUSHLIGHT. OH, scorn me not as a fameless thing, Nor turn with contempt from the song I sing; 'Tis true, I am not suffer'd to be On the ringing board of wassail glee: My pallid gleam must never fall In the gay saloon or lordly hall, But many a tale does the rushlight know Of secret sorrow and lonely woe. I am found in the closely-curtain'd room, Where a stillness reigns that breathes of the tomb— Where the breaking heart and heavy eye Are waiting to see a loved one die— Where the doting child with noiseless tread, Steals warily to the mother's bed, To mark if the faint and struggling breath Is fluttering still in the grasp of death. I am the light that quivering flits In the joyless home where the fond wife sits, Waiting the one that flies his hearth, For the gambler's dice and drunkard's mirth: Long hath she kept her wearying watch, Now bitterly weeping, now breathless to catch The welcome sound of a footstep near, Till she weeps again as it dies on her ear. Her restless gaze, as the night wears late, Is anxiously thrown on the dial plate; And a sob responds to the echoing sound, That tells the hand hath gone its round: She mournfully trims my slender wick, As she sees me fading and wasting quick; And many a time has my spark expired, And left her still the weeping and tired. I am the light that dimly shines Where the friendless child of genius pines— Where the godlike mind is trampled down By the callous sneer and freezing frown— Where Want is playing a demon part, And sends its iron to the heart— Where the soul burns on in the bosom that mourns, Like the incense fire in funeral urns. I see the hectic fingers fling The thoughts intense that flashingly spring, And my flickering beam illumes the page That may live in the fame of a future age; I see the pale brow droop and mope, Till the breast turns sick with blasted hope— Till the harsh cold world has done its worst, And the goaded spirit has groan'd and burst. I am the light that's doom'd to share The meanest lot that man can bear; I see the scanty portion spread, Where children struggle for scraps of bread— Where squalid forms and faces seem Like phantoms in a hideous dream— Where the soul may look, with startled awe, On the work of Poverty's vulture claw. Many a lesson the bosom learns Of hapless grief while the rushlight burns; Many a scene unfolds to me That the heart of Mercy would bleed to see: Then scorn me not as a fameless thing, Nor turn with contempt from the song I sing; But smile as ye will, or scorn as ye may, There's nought but truth to be found in my lay. THE SMUGGLER KING. THERE'S a brave little bark, stealing out in the dark, From her nest in the beetling bay; The fresh wind meets her dingy sheets, And softly she darts away: She never must run in the eye of the sun, But along with the owl takes wing; She must keep her flight for the moonless night, For she carries the Smuggler King. And monarch is he, as bold as can be, Of a strong and daring band; The bullet or blast may go whistling past, But he quails not heart or hand: He lives or dies with his fearful prize; Like a hunted wolf he'll spring, With trigger and dirk, to the deadliest work, And fight like a Smuggler King. Back from the wave to his home in the cave, In the sheen of the torches glare, He reigns the lord of the freebooters board, And never was costlier fare. Right firm and true are the hearts of his crew, There's faith in the shouts that ring, While, staving the cask and draining the flask, They drink to the Smuggler King. GOD HATH A VOICE. GOD hath a voice that ever is heard In the peal of the thunder, the chirp of the bird; It comes in the torrent, all rapid and strong, In the streamlet's soft gush as it ripples along; It breathes in the zephyr, just kissing the bloom; It lives in the rush of the sweeping simoom: Let the hurricane whistle, or warblers rejoice, What do they tell thee, but God hath a voice! God hath a presence, and that ye may see In the fold of the flower, the leaf of the tree; In the sun of the noonday, the star of the night; In the storm-cloud of darkness, the rainbow of light; In the waves of the ocean, the furrows of land; In the mountain of granite, the atom of sand; Turn where ye may, from the sky to the sod, Where can ye gaze that ye see not a God! THE OLD WATER-MILL. AND is this the old mill-stream that, ten years ago, Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow; Whose musical waters would ripple and shine With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine? Can this be its bed? I remember it well, When it sparkled like silver through meadow and dell; When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald side, And the minnow and perch darted swift through its tide. And here was the miller's house, peaceful abode! Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes from the road; Where roses and jasmine embower'd a door, That never was closed to the wayworn or poor. Where the miller, God bless him! oft gave us "a dance," And led off the ball with his soul in his glance; Who, forgetting grey hairs, was as loud in his mirth As the veriest youngsters that circled his hearth. Blind Ralph was the only musician we had, But his tunes—oh! such tunes—would make any heart glad; "The Roast Beef of Old England," and "Green grow the Rushes," Woke our eyes' brightest beams and our cheeks' warmest flushes. No lustre resplendent its brilliancy shed, But the wood fire blazed high and the board was well spread; Our seats were undamask'd, our partners were rough, Yet, yet we were happy, and that was enough! And here was the mill where we idled away Our holiday hours on a clear summer day; Where Roger, the miller's boy, loll'd on a sack, And chorus'd his song to the merry click-clack. But, lo! what rude sacrilege here hath been done? The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun; Its course has been turn'd, and the desolate edge Is now mournfully cover'd with duck-weed and sedge. The mill is in ruins.—No welcoming sound In the mastiff's quick bark and the wheels dashing round; The house, too, untenanted—left to decay— And the miller, long dead: all I loved pass'd away! This playplace of childhood was graved on my heart, In rare Paradise colours that now must depart; The old water-mill's gone, the fair vision is fled, And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the dead. THE WELCOME BACK. SWEET is the hour that brings us home, Where all will spring to meet us; Where hands are striving as we come, To be the first to greet us. When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath, And care been sorely pressing; 'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path, And find a fireside blessing. Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. What do we reck on a dreary way, Though lonely and benighted, If we know there are lips to chide our stay, And eyes that will beam love-lighted? What is the worth of your diamond ray, To the glance that flashes pleasure; When the words that welcome back betray, We form a heart's chief treasure? Oh, joyfully dear is our homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. THE WREATHS. WHOM do we crown with the laurel leaf? The hero god, the soldier chief. But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, Of the flying shot and the reeking steel; Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes, Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes. Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, Pluck'd from the gory field of death? Whom do we crown with summer flowers? The young and fair in their happiest hours. But the buds will only live in the light Of a festive day or glittering night; We know the vermil tints will fade, That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid. And who can prize the coronal, That's form'd to dazzle, wither, and fall? Who wears the cypress, dark and drear? The one who is shedding the mourner's tear: The gloomy branch for ever twines Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines. 'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart, That hath seen its dearest hopes depart; Oh, who can like the chaplet band, That is wove by Melancholy's hand? Where is the ivy circlet found? On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd In the purple stream—who drinks and laughs Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs. Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown, With its gems of grape-juice trickling down: But bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl, It has stain for the heart, and shade for the soul. But there's a green and fragrant leaf Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief: 'Tis the purest amaranth springing below, And rests on the calmest, noblest brow: It is not the right of the monarch or lord, Nor purchased by gold nor won by the sword, For the lowliest temples gather a ray Of quenchless light from the palm of bay. Oh! beautiful bay! I worship thee— I homage thy wreath—I cherish thy tree; And of all the chaplets Fame may deal, 'Tis only to this one I would kneel: For as Indians fly to the banian branch, When tempests lower and thunders launch, So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife, And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life, OLD PINCHER. WHEN I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due, Apollo I fear'd would look scornfully blue; I thought he might spurn the low station and blood, And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud. But another "fourfooted" comes boldly to claim His place beside Dobbin in merits and fame; He shall have it,—for why should I be over nice, Since Homer immortalized Ilion and—mice? I frolick'd, a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat, When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat, And the long promised puppy was hail'd with a joy That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy. "What a darling," cried I, while my sire, with a frown, Exclaim'd, "Hang the brute! though 'tis easy to drown;" But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail. Regarding his beauty, I'm silent, forsooth, I've a little old-fashion'd respect for the truth, And the praise of his colour or shape to advance Would be that part of history known as romance. There were some who most rudely denounced him a "cur"— How I hated that name, though I dared not demur! I thought him all fair, yet I'll answer for this, That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his. Now Dobbin, the pony, belonged to us all, Was at every one's service, and every one's call; But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine, Was held undisputed as whole and sole mine. Together we rambled, together we grew; Many plagues had the household, but we were the two Who were branded the deepest; all doings reviled, Were sure to be wrought by "that dog and that child." Unkennell'd and chainless, yet truly he served; No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved: A dog has a heart,—secure that, and you'll find That love even in brutes is the safest to bind. If my own kin or kind had demolish'd my ball, The transgression were mark'd with a scuffle and squall; But with perfect consent he might mouth it about, Till the very last atom of sawdust was out. When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat, How I long'd for the comfits so lusciously sweet: But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share? I fondled, I fed him, I coax'd or I cuff'd,— I drove or I led him, I sooth'd or I huff'd; He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love, But which were most cruel, 'twere a puzzle to prove. If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage; I might ply him with kicks, or belabour with blows, But Pincher was never once known to oppose. Did a mother appear the loud quarrel to learn, If 'twere only with him it gave little concern; No ill-usage could reuse him, no insult could chafe, While Pinch was the playmate, her darling was safe. If the geese on the common gave signal of fear, And screams most unmusical startled the ear, The cause was soon guess'd, for my foremost delight Was in seeing Pinch put the old gander to flight. Had the pantry been rifled of remnant of beef, Shrewd suspicions were form'd of receiver and thief,— For I paused not at crime, and I blush'd not at fibs That assisted to nurture his welt-cover'd ribs. The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared To career through its heath 'till the rabbits were scared: The gamekeeper threaten'd me Pinch should be shot,— But the threat was by both of us always forgot. The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again; And our footsteps in mud were "remarkably" plain: The tulips were crush'd, to the gardener's dismay, And when last we were seen we were bending that way. When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done, Some atrocious spoilation I chose to call "fun:" Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try, Knew well that the active Sejanus was I. But we weather'd all gales, and the years sped away, Till his "bonnie black" hide was fast turning to gray When accents were heard most alarmingly sad, Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad. It was true; his fixed doom was no longer a joke,— He that moment must die; my young heart was nigh broke. I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest, And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd. A shot, a faint howl, and old Pincher was dead: How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed. Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling, and clear; Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear. Our winter-night circle was now incomplete, We miss'd the fond brute that had snoozed at our feet; All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot, We lauded his merits, and sigh'd o'er his lot. Poodle, spaniel, and greyhound, were brought for my care, Of beauty and breed reckon'd preciously rare; But the playmate of infancy, friend of my youth, Was link'd with a lasting affection and truth. He was never supplanted—nay mention him now, And a something of shadow will steal from my brow; "Poor fellow!" will burst in such tone of regret, That whispers my heart is his lurking-place yet. No wonder, for memory brings back with him The thoughts that will render the lightest eye dim; He is mingled with all that I idolized most, The brightest, the purest, the loved, and the lost. The smile of a parent, the dearest, the best, The joys of my forest home spring to my breast, And those days reappear with a halo divine, When old Pincher, a mother, and childhood were mine. KINGS. OH, covet not the throne and crown, Sigh not for rule and state; The wise would fling the sceptre down, And shun the palace gate. Let wild Ambition wing its flight, Glory is free to all; But they who soar a regal height Will risk a deadly fall. Take any high imperial name, The great among the great; What was the guerdon of his fame, And what his closing fate? The hero of immortal Greece, Unhappy, fled to wine, And died in Saturnalian peace, As drunkard, fool, and swine. The first in arms, Rome's victor son, Fell by a traitor's aim, And drew the purple robes he'd won To hide his blood and shame. Bold Richard, England's lion heart, Escaped the burning fray, To sink beneath a peasant's dart, And groan his life away. Gaul's eagle, he whose upraised hand Sway'd legions of the brave, Died in a prison, "barr'd and bann'd," An exile and a slave. Scores may be found whose tyrant time Knew not one hour of rest; Their lives one course of senseless crime, Their every deed unblest. Ye blazing stars of gems and gold, What aching hearts ye mock! Strong marble walls, do ye not hold Sword, poison, axe, and block? Many have cursed the crown they've worn When hurl'd from place and rank, They met a people's groaning scorn, And trod the scaffold plank. "Uneasy lies the monarch's head," Despite his dazzling wreath; The hireling by his dying bed May aid the work of death. His cringing horde may bow the neck, Though bid to lick the dust; He may have serfs to wait his beck, But not one friend to trust. Ye lowly born, oh! covet not One right the sceptre brings; The honest name and peaceful lot Outweigh the pomp of kings. THE DEAD. WHEN the clear red sun goes down, Passing in glory away; And Night is spreading her twilight frown, On the open brow of Day;— When the faintest glimmering trace is gone, And all of light is fled; Then, then does memory, sad and lone, Call back the dear ones dead. When the harp's soul-touching chord Is roughly fray'd and torn; When of all tones the string that pour'd The fullest is outworn; When it is heard to breathe and break Its latest magic shed, Then, then will my warm heart bleed and ache, And cherish the kind ones dead. When the elm's rich leaf is seen Losing its freshness fast, And paleness steals on its vivid green, As the autumn wind moans past: When it eddies to the cold damp ground, All crush'd beneath the tread; Then, then may the tear in my eye be found, For I muse on the fair ones dead. For like that orb of light, That chord—and shining leaf, Forms were once near as rare and bright, And oh! their stay as brief. I watch'd them fading—I saw them sink, Light, Beauty, Sweetness fled; And a type of their being bids me think Too fondly of the dead. The sun will rise again, The string may be replaced, The tree will bloom—but the loved in the tomb, Leaves the world for ever waste. Let earth yield all the joys it may, Still should I bow my head; Still would my lonely breathing say, Give, give me back the dead. As the thickest verdure springs From the ashes of decay; And the living ivy closest clings To the ruins cold and gray. So my feelings most intense and deep, By the shrouded and lost are fed; So my thoughts will yearn, and my spirit turn, To be nurtured by the dead. SONG OF THE GOBLET. I HAVE kept my place at the rich man's board For many a waning night, Where streams of dazzling splendour pour'd Their galaxy of light: No wilder revelry has rung Than where my home has been; All that the bard of Teos sung, Has the golden goblet seen; And what I could tell full many might deem A fable of fancy, or tale of a dream. I have beheld a courteous band Sit round in bright array; Their voices firm, their words all bland, And brows like a cloudless day: But soon the guests were led by the host To dash out Reason's lamp; And then God's noble image had lost The fineness of its stamp: And their sober cheeks have blush'd to hear What they told o'er me without shame or fear. Their loud and tuneless laugh would tell Of a hot and reeling brain; Their right arms trembled, and red wine fell Like blood on a battle plain. Oh! sad is the work that I have done In the hands of the sot and fool; Cursed and dark is the fame I have won, As Death's most powerful tool: And I own that those who greet my rim, Too oft will find their bane on the brim. But all the golden goblet has wrought Is not of the evil kind; I have help'd the creature of mighty thought, And quicken'd the godlike mind. As gems of first water may lie in the shade, And no lustre be known to live, Till the kiss of the noontide beam has betray'd What a glorious sheen they can give: So, the breast may hold fire that none can see, Till it meet the sun-ray shed by me. I have burst the spirit's moody trance, And woke it to mirth and wit, Till the soul would dance in every glance Of eyes that were rapture lit. I have heard the bosom all warm and rife With friendship, offer up Its faith in heaven, its hope on earth, With the name it breathed in the cup! And I was proud to seal the bond Of the truly great and the firmly fond. I have served to raise the shivering form That sunk in the driving gale; I have fann'd the flame that famine and storm Had done their worst to pale: The stagnant vein has been curdled and cold As the marble's icy streak; But I have come, and the tide hath roll'd Right on to the heart and cheek; And bursting words from a grateful breast Have told the golden goblet was blest. Oh! Heaven forbid that bar or ban Should be thrown on the draught I bear; But woeful it is that senseless man Will brand me with sin and despair. Use me wisely, and I will lend A joy ye may cherish and praise; But love me too well, and my potion shall send A burning blight on thy days. This is the strain I sing as ye fill— "Beware! the goblet can cheer or kill!" THE LAST LOOK. LONG, long had he waned from life, but now Strange faintness drain'd his breath; An icy paleness stole to his brow— The shadow of coming death. He gazed around the little room Where his happiest hours had been spent, Conning the page of poet and sage, Or holding merriment: He felt he was dying, and calmly took A sad, a long, last farewell look. He threw a glance on all he prized— A glance that was glazing and dim: He mark'd the lute unstrung and mute, To be woke no more by him. He dwelt where the precious volumes lay— Those treasures of pure delight, That had charm'd away the lonely day, And solaced the sleepless night: Cherish'd till they had form'd a part Of idols closest to his heart. He raised his eye, with a gentle sigh, To the picture-blazon'd wall, And his father's portrait met him there, The dearest thing of all! He fix'd his gaze, and a tremor pass'd, Betraying some sudden pain; His dark lids fell, that look was the last! He raised them not again: He gasp'd and murmur'd falteringly, "Tis o'er, now lead me forth to die!" But the sand was out, his drooping head Sunk heavily on his breast; The chord had snapp'd, and his soul had fled Where "the weary are at rest!" Years have gone by, but memory still E'er yields to his spirit's claim My cheek will whiten, my eye will fill To hear his whisper'd name; For the moment passes when he took His last, that long, that dying look. STANZAS. THEY tell us that the deep sea hath More dangers than the shore; They whisper tales of ocean wrath, And breakers' deadly roar. How oft the ruddy cheek will pale To leave the earth behind; How oft the glowing heart will quail Before the tempest wind: We fear the billows' dash, but why? There's One to guard and save; There's One whose wide and watchful eye Sleeps not above the wave. Why should the soul withdraw its trust Upon the foamy track? HE who gave life, all wise and just, Knows when to ask it back. Though death were nigh, I would not shrink, My faith, my hope should rest Upon a Maker's will, and think Whate'er HE will'd the best. I'd ever trust the ruling hand, Howe'er the storm might rave, For HE who watches o'er the land Sleeps not above the wave. SONG OF THE MARINERS. THE miser will hold his darling gold Till his eyes are glazed and his hands are cold; The minstrel one to his wild lyre clings, As though its chords were his own heart-strings; No dearer boon will the reveller ask, Than the draught that deepens the purple flask; But the firmest love-link that can be, Chains the mariners bold to the pathless sea. Choose ye who will earth's dazzling bowers, But the great and glorious sea be ours; Give us, give us the dolphin's home, With the speeding keel and splashing foam, Right merry are we as the sound bark springs On her lonely track like a creature of wings; Oh, the mariner's life is blythe and gay, When the sky is fair and the ship on her way. We love the perilous sea, because It will not bend to man or his laws; It ever hath roll'd the uncontroll'd, It cannot be warp'd to fashion or mould: Now quiet and fair as a sleeping child; Now rousing in tempests madly wild; And who shall wean the mighty flood From its placid dream, or passionate mood? We are not so apt to forget our God, As those who dwell on the dry safe sod, For we know each leaping wave we meet May be a crystal winding sheet: We know each blustering gale that blows May requiem to a last repose; And the chafing tide, as it roars and swells, Hath as solemn a tone as the calling bells. The land has its beauty, its sapphire and rose, But look on the colours the bright main shows; While each billow flings from its pearly fringe The lucid jewels of rainbow tinge. Go, mark the waters at sunny noon, Go float beneath the full clear moon, And cold is the spirit that wakes not there, With wondering praise and worshipping prayer. 'Tis true, we may sink 'mid deluge and blast, But we cope with the strong, we are quell'd by the vast, And a noble urn is the founder'd wreck; Though no incense may burn, and no flower may deck, We need no stately funeral car, But tangled with salt weeds and lash'd to a spar; Down, down below the mariners go, While thunders volley and hurricanes blow. But little do we bold mariners care What hour we fall, or what risk we dare, For the groan on the struggling sailor's lip Is less for himself than his dying ship. Oh! ours is the life for the free and the brave, 'Neath the measureless sky on the fathomless wave, For we laugh mid the foam of our perilous home, And are ready for death whene'er it may come. THE FLAG OF THE FREE. 'TIS the streamer of England—it floats o'er the brave— 'Tis the fairest unfurl'd o'er the land or the wave; But though brightest in story and matchless in fight, 'Tis the herald of mercy as well as of might. In the cause of the wrong'd may it ever be first— When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst: Be "Justice" the war-shout, and dastard is he, Who would scruple to die 'neath the flag of the free! It may trail o'er the halyards a bullet-torn rag, Or flutter in shreds from the battlement crag; Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may, Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away. What matter! we'd hoist the blue jacket on high, Or the soldier's red sash from the spear-head should fly. Though it were but a ribbon the foeman should see The proud signal, and own it—the flag of the free! Have we ever look'd out from a far foreign shore, To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore; And watch'd every speck that arose on the foam, In hope of glad tidings from country and home:— Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last, And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast?— Then, then have our hearts learnt how precious can be The fair streamer of England—the flag of the free! THE BRAVE. FOR whom are your gyves? for the cowardly one, Who would strike in the dark, and steal back in the sun? For the felon who never hath used his right hand But to injure his brothers and merit the brand? Go fetter the traitor and dastardly spy; Let them joylessly live and despairingly die: THEY are guerdon'd right well with the doom of the slave, But away with your chains from the honestly brave! Could a Wallace or Washington—spirits divine! Live on as the captured to languish and pine? Should earth show a wall as the dungeon of such, Or aught like a fetter profane with its touch? No, no! when the destiny woven by fate Gives us power to trample and vanquish the great, Strike, strike in pure mercy, 'twere torture to save; Fell at once, but oh! forge not a link for the brave. The lion may yield—let him sink, let him bleed, But seek not to tame him, to bind, and to lead, Launch thy barb, bring the proud eagle down from his swoop, But a curse on the hand that would build him a coop. Oh, give not the noble one trammels to wear, Till the heart-strings are snapt by the pressure they bear: Let him fall like the free—give him death and a grave, But never, in mercy, place chains on the brave! STANZAS TO THE YOUNG. LONG have the wisest lips confess'd That minstrel ones are far from wrong, Who "point a moral" in a jest, Or yield a sermon in a song. So be it! Listen ye who will, And, though my harp be roughly strung, Yet never shall its lightest thrill Offend the old or taint the young, Mark me! I ne'er presume to teach The man of wisdom, grey and sage; 'Tis to the growing I would preach From moral text and mentor page. First, I would bid thee cherish truth, As leading star in Virtue's train; Folly may pass, nor tarnish youth, But falsehood leaves a poison stain. Keep watch, nor let the burning tide Of impulse break from all control; The best of hearts needs pilot-guide To steer it clear from error's shoal. One wave of passion's boiling flood May all the sea of life disturb, And steeds of good but fiery blood Will rush on death without a curb. Think on the course ye fain would run, And moderate the wild desire; There's many a one would drive the sun, Only to set the world on fire. Slight not the one of honest worth, Because no star adorns his breast; The lark soars highest from the earth, Yet ever leaves the lowest nest. Heed but the bearing of a tree, And if it yield a wholesome fruit, A shallow, envious fool is he Who spurns it for its forest root. Let fair humanity be thine, To fellow man and meanest brute; 'Tis nobly taught; the code's divine— Mercy is God's chief attribute. The coward wretch whose hand and heart Can bear to torture aught below, Is ever first to quail and start From slightest pain or equal foe. Be not too ready to condemn The wrong thy brothers may have done; Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask—"Have I none?" Live that thy young and glowing breast Can think of death without a sigh; And be assured that life is best Which finds us least afraid to die! PRAYER. How purely true, how deeply warm, The inly-breathed appeal may be, Though adoration wears no form, In upraised hand or bended knee. One spirit fills all boundless space, No limit to the when or where; And little recks the time or place That leads the soul to praise and prayer. Father above, Almighty one, Creator, is that worship vain, That hails each mountain as thy throne, And finds an universal fane? When shining stars, or spangled sod, Call forth devotion, who shall dare To blame, or tell me that a God Will never deign to hear such prayer? Oh, prayer is good when many pour Their voices in one solemn tone; Conning their sacred lessons o'er, Or yielding thanks for mercies shown. 'Tis good to see the quiet train Forget their worldly joy and care, While loud response and choral strain Re-echo in the house of prayer. But often have I stood to mark The setting sun and closing flower; When silence and the gathering dark Shed holy calmness o'er the hour. Lone on the hills my soul confess'd More rapt and burning homage there; And served the Maker it address'd With stronger zeal and closer prayer. When watching those we love and prize, Till all of life and hope be fled; When we have gazed on sightless eyes, And gently stayed the falling head: Then what can soothe the stricken heart, What solace overcome despair; What earthly breathing can impart Such healing balm as lonely prayer? When fears and perils thicken fast, And many dangers gather round; When human aid is vain and past, No mortal refuge to be found;— Then can we firmly lean on heaven, And gather strength to meet and bear; No matter where the storm has driven, A saving anchor lives in prayer. Oh, God! how beautiful the thought, How merciful the blest decree, That grace can e'er be found when sought, And nought shut out the soul from Thee. The cell may cramp, the fetters gall, The flame may scorch, the rack may tear; But torture-stake or prison-wall, Can be endured with faith and prayer. In desert wilds, in midnight gloom, In grateful joy, in trying pain; In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb, Oh when is prayer unheard or vain? The Infinite, the King of kings, Will never heed the when or where; He'll ne'er reject a heart that brings The offering of fervent prayer. THE KING'S OLD HALL.∗ FEW ages since, and wild echoes awoke In thy sweeping dome and panelling oak; Thy seats were fill'd with a princely band— Rulers of men and lords of the land. Loudly they raved, and gaily they laugh'd, O'er the golden chalice and sparkling draught; And the glittering board and gem-studded plume Proclaim'd thee a Monarch's revelling room. But now the spider is weaving his woof, Making his loom of thy sculptured roof; The slug is leaving his slimy stain, Trailing his way o'er thy Gothic pane; Weeds have gather'd and moss has grown On thy topmost ridge and lowest stone; And the wheeling bat comes flapping his wing On the walls that circled a banqueting King. The idle stare and vulgar tread May fall where the regal train was spread; The gloomy owl may hide its nest, And the speckled lizard safely rest.

Eltham Palace, Kent.

Who were the revellers? where are their forms? Go to the charnel, and ask of the worms. They are low in the dust, forgotten and past, And the pile they raised is following fast. Oh man—vain man! how futile your aim, When building your temples to pleasure and fame! Go—work for Heaven with faith and care— Let good works secure thee a mansion there. For the palace of pageantry crumbles away, Its beauty and strength are mock'd by decay, And a voice from the desolate halls of kings, Cries "Put not your trust in corrupted things!" Cunningham and Salmon, Printers,Crown-court, Fleet-street.